PASTELS  IN  PROSE 


C.  K.  O6DEN 


FROM   THE   FRENCH 


Pastels  in   Prose 


Translated  by  STUART  MERRILL, 
with  illustrations  by  HENRY  W, 
McPicKAR,  and  an  introduction 
by  WILLIAM  DEAN  Ho  WELLS 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 
1890 


Copyright,  1890,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


_    WBKARY 
UNiv^tsiTY  o*  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


rHE-PROSE-POEM 


THE  literary  form  known  as  a  Prose  Poem 
is,  like  the  Song  without  Words  in  music,  a 
peculiarly  modern  invention ;  I  believe  it  is 
even  more  recent,  and  it  is  even  more  subt- 
ly suggestive.  I  do  not  mean  that  poetical 
prose  has  not  always  been  written ;  it  has 
not  been  so  much  written  as  prosaic  poetry; 
but  our  language  abounds  in  noble  passages 
of  it,  and  it  will  always  be  written  as  often  as 
a  lift  of  profound  feeling  gives  thinking  wings. 
Of  course  one  recurs  to  the  greatest  Book  of 
all  when  one  speaks  of  this,  and  to  the  sub- 
lime passages  scattered  throughout  both  Tes- 
taments. In  a  measure  the  whole  Bible  is  a 
prose  poem  in  our  version,  and  in  the  Bible 
Job  and  Ecclesiastesare  notably  prose  poems, 
and  in  every  prophet  and  every  apostle  there 
are  passages  of  the  noblest  prose  poetry.  In 
fact,  every  strain  of  eloquence  is  a  strain  of 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

poetry;  every  impassioned  plea  or  oration  is 
a  poem  in  prose.  At  times,  at  all  times,  deep 
emotion  takes  on  movement  and  cadence,  and 
the  curious  have  often  selected  rhythmical 
passages  from  prose  authors,  and  given  them 
the  typographical  form  of  poetry,  to  show 
how  men  might  be  poets  without  knowing  it. 
Indeed,  some  writers  have  intentionally  im- 
parted to  their  prose  the  flow  of  verse,  as  if 
one  should  modulate  his  walk  to  a  dancing 
step,  and  have  produced  a  vicious  kind  in 
literature,  which  is  as  different  as  possible 
from  the  Poem  in  Prose  as  the  French  have 
cultivated  it. 

I  do  not  know  whether  Tourguenief,  in  his 
Prose  Poems,  which  sound  depths  and  reach 
heights  untouched  by  the  form  before  or 
since,  received  or  gave  an  impulse  in  this 
irregular  species  of  composition  ;  perhaps 
he  did  both  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  the  reader 
of  the  exquisite  pieces  in  this  book  will  be 
sensible  of  qualities  and  cognizant  of  traits 
common  to  them  all,  which  they  have  in 
common  with  the  kindred  work  of  that  very 
great  artist.  It  seems  to  me  that  first  of 
everything  the  reader  will  notice  the  beau- 
tiful reticence  which  characterizes  them,  as  if 
the  very  freedom  which  the  poets  had  found 
in  their  emancipation  from  the  artificial  tram- 


INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

mels  of  verse  had  put  them  on  their  hon- 
or, as  it  were,  and  bound  them  to  brevity, 
to  simplicity;  as  if  they  felt  the  responsibili- 
ty they  were  under  to  be  even  more  laconic, 
more  delicate,  more  refined  than  they  might 
have  been  in  openly  confessing  the  laws  of 
prosody.  What  struck  me  most  was  that 
apparently  none  of  them  had  abused  his  op- 
portunity to  saddle  his  reader  with  a  moral. 
He  had  expressed  his  idea,  his  emotion, 
and  then  left  it  to  take  its  chance,  in  a  way 
very  uncommon  in  English  verse,  at  least, 
and  equalled  only,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  some 
of  the  subtile  felicities  of  Heinrich  Heine. 
One  would  have  thought  it  must  fall  out  in 
just  the  other  way;  that  the  poet,  having  all 
the  liberties  of  prose  in  his  right,  could  not 
fail  to  explain  and  expound  himself,  and  to 
make  the  application.  But  no  ;  he  fashions 
his  pretty  fancy  on  his  lovely  inspiration; 
sets  it  well  on  the  ground,  poises  it,  goes 
and  leaves  it.  The  thing  cannot  have  been 
easy  to  learn,  and  it  must  always  be  most 
difficult  to  do,  for  it  implies  the  most  cour- 
ageous faith  in  art,  the  finest  respect  for 
others,  the  wisest  self-denial. 

I  do  not  know  the  history  of  the  French 
Poem  in  Prose,  but  I  am  sure  that,  as  we  say 
in  our  graphic  slang,  it  has  come  to  stay. 


VIM  INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  a  form  which  other  languages  must 
naturalize;  and  we  can  only  hope  that  crit- 
icism will  carefully  guard  the  process,  and 
see  that  it  is  not  vulgarized  or  coarsened  in 
it.  The  very  life  of  the  form  is  its  aerial 
delicacy,  its  soul  is  that  perfume  of  thought, 
of  emotion,  which  these  masters  here  have 
never  suffered  to  become  an  argument.  Its 
wonderful  refinement,  which  is  almost  fragil- 
ity, is  happily  expressed  in  the  notion  of 
"Pastels;"  and  more  than  once,  forgetting 
that  modern  invention  has  found  a  way  of 
fixing  the  chalks,  I  have  felt,  in  going  over 
these  little  pieces,  that  the  slightest  rudeness 
of  touch  might  shake  the  bloom,  the  color, 
from  them.  As  it  is,  I  am  certain  they  must 
be  approached  with  sympathy  by  whoever 
would  get  all  their  lovely  grace,  their  charm 
that  comes  and  goes  like  the  light  in  beauti- 
ful eyes. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS. 
NEW  YORK,  April,  1890. 


TRANSLATOR'S -NOTE     Ik 

^^~^L 


SPECIAL  acknowledgments  are  due  to 
MM.  Ephrai'm  Mikhael,  Pierre  Quillard,  and 
Achille  Delaroche  for  the  prose  poems  en- 
titled, respectively,  "Solitude,"  "The  Broth- 
ers-at-Arms,''  and  "The  Conquering  Dream," 
vyhich  were  written  for  this  volume;  to  Mme. 
Emile  Hennequin  for  the  six  prose  poems, 
by  her  late  husband,  selected  by  her  for  the 
translator  from  among  hitherto  unpublished 
manuscripts;  and  to  MM.  Catulle  Mendes 
and  Stephane  Mallarme  for  their  courtesy  in 
enabling  the  translator  to  include  in  this 
collection  versions  of  prose  poems  from  the 
final  proof-sheets  of  their  new  volumes. 

S.  M. 


LOUIS   BERTKAND.  PAGE 

THE  STUDENT  OF  I.EYDEN 3 

MY   GREAT-GRANDFATHER 5 

THE   ROUND    UNDER    THE   BELL        ....  7 

EVENING   ON    THE   WATER 9 

MOONLIGHT II 

THE  GALLANT 13 

THE  MASON 15 

THE   SALAMANDER 17 

HENRIQUEZ I(j 

THE   TULIP    VENDOR 21 

THE   MULETEERS 23 

MADAME   DE  MONTBAZON 26 

I'ADRE    I'UGNACCIO 28 

PAUL   LECLERCQ. 

A   STORY    IN  WHITE 33 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE. 

PAGE 

ROSES   AND   LILIES 43 

THE  ANGELS 45 

REMEMBRANCE 47 

HARLEQUIN 49 

THE  GODDESS 51 

THE   INEFFABLE 53 

ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 

THE   DEATH  OF   THE   DAUPHIN         .       .       .       .57 
THE  SOUS-PREFET  AFIELD 63 

VILLIERS  DE  L'ISLE-ADAM. 

VOX   POPULI 71 

GEORGE  AURIOL. 

THE   HARPSICHORD   OF  YEDDO 8l 

JUDITH  GAUTIER. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  ORANGE-LEAVES      .  87 

THE  EMPEROR 88 

A  POET  GAZES  ON  THE  MOON 90 

BY  THE  RIVER 91 

THE  SADNESS  OF  THE  HUSBANDMAN      .     .  92 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  FLUTE 93 

THE  FISHERMAN 94 

THE  SAGES'  DANCE 95 

THE  RED  FLOWER 96 

THE  MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  SEA 97 


CONTENTS.  XI 11 

CAGE 

NEAR   THE   MOUTH   OF   THE   RIVER   ...  98 

THE   HOUSE   IN  THE   HEART 99 

A    YOUNG   GIRL'S    CARES IOO 

INDIFFERENCE   TO   THE  LURES    OF    SPRING  IOI 

JORIS-KARL  HUYSMANS. 

CAMAlEU    IN    RED IO5 

EPHRAl'M  MIKHAEL. 

THE  CAPTIVE Ill 

THE  TOYSHOP 115 

THE  JUNK    .       .       ? Il8 

KINGSHIP I2O 

MIRACLES 125 

THE  EVOCATOR 130 

SOLITUDE  :  ANYWHERE  OUT  OF  THE  WORLD  134 

PIERRE  QUILLARD. 

THE   BROTHERS-AT-ARMS "151 

RODOLPHE  DARZENS. 

THE   SAD    SEASON 157 

ON   THE   PROMENADES 159 

CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE. 

THE   STRANGER 163 

THE  CONFITEOR   OF   THE   ARTIST       .       .       .165 

EVERY   ONE   HIS   OWN   CHIMERA    ....  167 

THE  BUFFOON   AND   THE   VENUS   ....  169 

CROWDS 171 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  WINDOWS       .........    174 

THE  BLESSINGS   OF  THE  MOON      ....    176 

ANYWHERE   OUT   OF  THE   WORLD      .      .      .179 

ACHILLE  DELAROCHE. 

THE  CONQUERING   DREAM  ......    185 

STEPHANE  MALLARME. 

IN   AUTUMN         ..........    189 

IN    WINTER        ..........    192 

EMILE   HENNEQUIN. 

MINORATION      ..........  197 

THE  QUEST  ...........  198 

A   DREAM      ...  .......  199 

THE   IRREMEDIABLE    ........  2OI 

WORDS     ............  2O3 

THE   EARTH        ..........  2O5 

ADRIEN   REMACLE. 

THE   CITY     ...........    2Og 

PAUL  MARGUERITTE. 

THE   DEATH   OF   PIERROT      ......    21$ 


MAURICE  DE  GUERIN. 

THE   CENTAUR  ..........    221 

PAUL   MASY. 

A    FANTASY  ...........    239 


CONTENTS.  XV 

HECTOR  CHAINAYE. 

PAGE 

THE   GUESTS 243 

CATULLE   MENDES. 

MELICERTE 249 

THE   SWAN'S 251 

QUEEN   COELIA 253 

THE   TRIAL   OF   THE    ROSES 256 

CHARLES-EUDES  BONIN. 

GLORIES 26l 

HENRI   DE  REGNIER. 

THE   STAIRWAY 265 


THE 
STUDENT  OF  LEYDEN. 

ASTER  BLASIUS  sits  in  his  arm- 
chair lined  with  Utrecht  vel- 
vet, his  chin  resting  on  a  ruff 
of  fine  lace,  like  a  roasted  fowl 
on  a  faience  platter. 
He  sits  before  his  bank  to  count  the 
change  of  half  a  florin ;  while  I,  poor  student 
of  Leyden,  with  my  cap  and  breeches  full 
of  holes,  wait  on  one  leg,  like  a  crane  on  a 
pole. 

There  is  the  trebucket  that  starts  from 
the  lacquer  box  with  its  bizarre  Chinese  fig- 
ures, like  a  spider  that  has  folded  its  long 
legs  and  sought  refuge  in  a  tulip  shaded 
with  a  thousand  tints. 

Would  you  not  imagine,  seeing  the  length- 
ened mien  of  the  master  and  his  wasted 
fingers  trembling  while  counting  the  gold- 


6  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

heard  him  pray ;  that  his  ringers  were  rlesh- 
less,  although  they  sparkled  with  precious 
stones ! 

And  I  asked  myself  whether  I  was  awake 
or  asleep — whether  it  was  the  pallor  of  the 
moon  or  of  Lucifer — whether  it  was  mid- 
night or  the  break  of  day. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


THE  ROUND  UNDER  THE   BELL. 


WELVE  sorcerers  were  dancing  a 
round  under  the  big  bell  of 
Saint  John's.  They  invoked 
the  storm  one  after  the  other, 
and  from  the  depths  of  my 
bed  I  counted  with  terror 
twelve  voices  that  fell  processionally  through 
the  darkness. 

Immediately  the  moon  hid  herself  behind 
the  clouds,  and  rain,  mingled  with  lightning 
and  whirlwinds,  lashed  my  window,  while  the 
vanes  screeched,  like  watching  cranes  when 
a  shower  bursts  upon  them  in  the  woods. 

The  string  of  my  lute,  hanging  against  a 
panel,  broke ;  my  goldfinch  fluttered  his 
wings  in  the  cage ;  some  curious  sprite  turn- 
ed over  a  leaf  of  the  "  Romaunce  of  the 
Rose  "  that  was  sleeping  on  my  desk. 


8 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


But  suddenly  the  thunder  crashed  at  the 
top  of  Saint  John's ;  the  sorcerers  disap- 
peared, struck  to  death  ;  and  I  saw  from  far 
their  books  of  magic  burning 
like  a  torch  in  the  black  belfry. 
The  frightful  conflagra- 
tion painted  the  walls  of  the 
Gothic  church  with  the  red 
flames  of  purgatory  and 
hell,  and  prolonged  upon 
the  neighboring  houses 
the  shadow  of  the  gigan- 
-  tic  statue  of  Saint 
John. 

The  vanes  be- 
came rusty;  the  moon 
melted  the  pearly  clouds ; 
the  rain  only  fell  drop  by 
drop  from  the  edge  of  the 
roof,  and  the  breeze,  opening  my  ill-closed 
window,  threw  upon  my  pillow  the  flowers 
of  my  jasmine  bush  shaken  by  the  storm. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


EVENING  ON   THE  WATER. 

f 

HE  black  gondola  glided  by  the 
palaces  of  marble,  like  a  bravo 
running  to  some  nocturnal  ad- 
venture,  with   stiletto   and 
lantern  under  his  cloak. 
A  cavalier  and  a  lady 
were   conversing 
of  love.    "  The  or- 
ange-trees so  per- 
fumed, and  you  so 
indifferent !      Ah, 
Signora,  you    are 
as  a  statue   in   a 
garden!" 

"  Is  this  the  kiss  of  a  statue,  my  Georgio? 
Why  do  you  sulk  ?  You  love  me,  then  ?" 
"  There  is  not  a  star  in  the  heavens  that 
does  not  know  it,  and  thou  knowest  it  not  ?" 


10  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  What  is  that  noise  ?"  "  Nothing ;  doubt- 
less the  splash  of  the  water  up  and  down 
a  step  in  the  stair-way  of  the  Giudecca." 

"  Help  !  help  !"  "Ah,  Mother  of  the  Sav- 
iour !  somebody  drowning  !"  "  Step  aside  ; 
he  has  been  confessed,"  said  a  monk,  who 
appeared  on  the  terrace. 

And  the  black  gondola  strained  its  oars 
and  glided  by  the  palaces  of  marble,  like  a 
bravo  returning  from  some  nocturnal  ad- 
venture, with  stiletto  and  lantern  under  his 
cloak. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  II 


MOONLIGHT. 

AT  the  hour  that  separates  one  day  from 
another,  when  the  city  sleeps  in  silence,  I 
awoke  with  a  start  upon  a  winter's  night, 
as  I  heard  my  name  pronounced  by  my  side. 

My  room  was  half  dark ;  the  moon,  clad 
in  a  vaporous  robe,  like  a  white  fairy,  was 
gazing  upon  my  sleep  and  smiling  at  me 
through  the  windows. 

A  nocturnal  patrol  was  passing  in  the 
street ;  a  homeless  dog  howled  in  a  desert- 
ed cross-way,  and  the  cricket  sang  in  my 
hearth. 

Soon  the  noises  grew  fainter  by  degrees. 
The  nocturnal  patrol  had  departed,  a  door 
had  been  opened  to  the  poor  abandoned 
dog,  and  the  cricket,  weary  of  singing,  had 
fallen  asleep  ;.  and  to  me,  barely  rid  of  a 
dream,  with  eyes  yet  dazzled  by  the  mar- 


12 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


vels  of  another  world,  all  that  surrounded 
me  seemed  a  dream. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  awaken  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  when  the  moon,  that 
glides  mysteriously  to  your  couch,  awakens 
you  with  a  melancholy  kiss  ! 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  13 


THE   GALLANT. 


i  Y  curled  mustaches  resemble  the 
tail  of  the  tarask,  my  linen 
is  as  white  as  the  table- 
cloth of  an  inn,  and  my 
doublet  is  not  older  than  the  tapestries  of 
the  crown. 

Would  one  imagine,  seeing  my  smart  bear- 
ing, that  hunger,  lodged  in  my  belly,  is  pull- 
ing—  the  torturer!  —  a  rope  that  strangles 
me  as  though  I  were  being  hanged  ? 

Ah,  if  from  that  window,  where  dances  a 
shrivelling  light,  a  roasted  lark  had  only 
fallen  in  the  cock  of  my  hat,  instead  of  that 
faded  flower ! 

The  Place  Royale,  to-night  under  the  links, 
is  as  clear  as  a  chapel ;  look  out  for  the 
letter  !  Fresh  lemonade  !  Macaroons  of 
Naples  !  Here,  little  one,  let  me  dip  a  finger 


14  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

in  your  truite  d  la 
sauce!  Rascal ! — 
there  lacks  spice 
to  your  April-fool ! 
Do  I  not  see 
yonder  Marion  De- 
lorme  on  the  arm 
of  the  Due  de  Lon- 
gueville  ?  Three 
lapdogs  follow  her  ,f 
yapping.  She  has  r 
fine  diamonds  in 
her  ears,  the  young 
courtesan !  He 
has  fine  rubies  on  his  nose,  the  old  courtier  ! 


And  the  gallant  struts  about,  fist  on  hip, 
elbowing  the  men  and  smiling  on  the  women. 
He  did  not  have  enough  to  dine  on  ;  he 
bought  himself  a  bouquet  of  violets. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


HE  mason  Abraham  Knupfer 
sings,  with  trowel  in  hand, 
scaffolded  in  the  air,  so  high 
that  reading  the  Gothic  verses 
on  the  great  bell,  he  levels  under  his  feet 
the  church  with  its  thirty  buttresses  and  the 
town  with  its  thirty  churches. 

He  sees  the  stone  gargoyles  disgorge 
the  water  of  the  slates  into  the  confused 
abysm  of  galleries,  of  windows,  of  pendent- 
ives,  of  spires,  of  towers,  of  roofs,  and  of 
frames  which  the  dented  and  motionless 
wing  of  a  tiercelet  dashes  with  a  spot  of 
gray. 

He  sees  the  fortifications  cut  in  the  shape 
of  a  star,  the  citadel  that  swells  out  like  a 
hen  in  a  dove-cot,  the  courts  of  the  palaces 
where  the  sun  dries,  and  the  fountains  and 


1 6  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

the  cloisters  of  the  monasteries  where  the 
shade  revolves  around  the  pillars. 

The  imperial  troops  are  quartered  in  the 
faubourg.  And  now  a  horseman  is  drum- 
ming yonder.  Abraham  Knupfer  distin- 
guishes his  three-horned  chapeau,  his  aiguil- 
lettes  of  red  wool,  his  cockade  shot  with  gold 
thread,  and  his  queue  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

And  beyond  he  sees  soldiers  who,  in  the 
park  plumed  with  gigantic  branches,  upon 
large  lawns  of  emerald,  riddle  with  their 
arquebuses  a  wooden  bird,  stuck  on  the  top 
of  a  May-pole. 

And  in  the  evening,  when 
the  harmonious  nave  of  the 
cathedral  fell  asleep,  with  its  t 
arms  extended  in  the  shape 
of  a  cross,  he  perceived, from 
his  ladder,  towards  the  hori- 
zon,  a  village  fired  by  the 
men-at-arms  that  flamed  like 
a  comet  through  the  azure. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  17 


SALAMANDER. 


r 
RICKET,  my  friend,  art  thou  dead, 

that  thou  remainest  deaf  to 
the  sound  of  my  whistle, 
and  blind  to  the  light  of 
the  fire  ?" 

And  the  cricket,  notwithstanding  the  af- 
fectionate words  of  the  salamander,  did  not 
answer,  either  because  he  was  sleeping  a 
magic  sleep,  or  because  his  whim  was  to  sulk. 
"  Oh,  sing  me  thy  song  of  every  evening, 
in  thy  home  of  cinders  and  soot,  behind  the 
plate  of  iron  escutcheoned  with  three  heral- 
dic flowers-de-luce." 

But  still  the  cricket  did  not  answer,  and 
the  tearful  salamander  at  times  listened  for 
its  voice,  and  at  others  hummed  with  the 
rlame  of  changing  colors,  pink,  blue,  red,  yel- 
low, white,  and  violet. 

2 


1 8  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  He  is  dead,  he  is  dead,  the  cricket  my 
friend !"  And  I  thought  I  heard  sighs  and 
sobs,  while  the  flame,  livid  now,  grew  fainter 
in  the  saddened  hearth. 

"  He  is  dead,  and  since  he  is  dead,  I  wish 
to  die !"  The  vine-knots  were  consumed, 
the  flame  dragged  itself  on  the  embers  and 
threw  its  farewell  to  the  pot-hook,  and  the 
salamander  died  of  inanition. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


HENRIQUEZ. 

^ 

OR  a  year  I  have  command- 
ed you,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  now 
another  must  succeed  me.  I  mar- 
ry a  rich  widow  of  Cordova,  and  I 
give  up  the  stiletto  of  the  brigand  for  the 
staff  of  the  corregidor." 

He  opened  the  coffer  where  lay  the  treas- 
ure to  be  divided  :  sacred  vases  pall  mall, 
quadruple  jewels,  a  rain  of  pearls,  and  a 
string  of  diamonds. 

"  For  you,  Henriquez,  the  ear-rings  and 
the  ring  of  the  Marquis  of  Aroea;  for 
you  killed  him  in  his  post-chaise  with 
a  carbine-shot !" 

Henriquez  slipped  upon   his  finger  \ 
the  bleeding  topaz,  and  hung  on  his 
ears   the   amethysts   cut   in    the    shape 
drops  of  blood. 


20  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  those  ear-rings  with 
which  the  Duchess  of  Medina-Coela  had 
adorned  herself,  and  which  Henriquez,  a 
month  later,  gave  in  exchange  for  a  kiss  to 
the  jailer's  daughter. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  that  ring  which  a 
hidalgo  had  bought  from  an  emir  for  the 
price  of  a  white  mare,  and  with  which  Hen- 
riquez paid  for  a  glass  of  brandy  a  few  min- 
utes before  he  was  hanged. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


THE  TULIP  VENDOR. 

o  noise  unless  it  be  the  rustling 
of  the  vellum  leaves  between 
the  fingers  of  Doctor  Huyl- 
ten,  who   only  detached   his 
eyes  from  his  Bible  strewn 
with  Gothic  illuminations  to  admire  the  gold 
and  purple  of  two  fishes  captive  within  the 
hunted  sphere  of  a  globe. 

The  door  rolled  on  its  hinges.  It  was  a 
flower  merchant  who,  with  several  pots  of 
tulips  in  his  arms,  made  excuse  for  inter- 
rupting _the  studies  of  so  learned  a  person- 
age. 

"Master,"  said  he,  "here  is  the  treasure 
of  treasures  among  tulips,  the  marvel  of 
marvels,  a  bulb  such  as  only  flowers  once  a 
century  in  the  seraglio  of  the  Emperor  of 
Constantinople." 


22 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


"  A  tulip !"  exclaimed  the  irate  old  man, 
"  a  tulip !  that  symbol  of  pride  and  luxury, 
that  has  engendered  in  the  stricken  town  of 
Wittenberg  the  detestable  heresy  of  Luther 
and  Melancthon  !" 

Master  Huylten  fastened  the  clasps  of 
his  Bible,  slipped  his  spectacles  back 
in  their  case,  and  drew  the  curtain 
from  the  window,  through  which 
could  be  seen  in  the  sun  a 
passion-flower,  with  its  crown 
of  thorns,  its  sponge,  its 
scourge,  its  nails,  and  the 
five  wounds  of  Our  Saviour. 
The  tulip  vendor  bowed 
respectfully  and  in  silence, 
disconcerted  by  an  inquisi- 
tive glance  from  the  Duke 
of  Alva,  whose  portrait,  a  masterpiece  by 
Holbein,  was  hanging  on  the  wall. 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  23 


THE   MULETEERS. 

THEY  are  counting  their  rosaries  or  plait- 
ing their  hair,  the  dark  Andalusians,  indo- 
lently swaying  with  the  gait  of  their  mules; 
some  of  the  arrieros  are  singing  the  canticle 
of  the  pilgrims  of  Saint  Jacques,  re-echoed 
by  the  hundred  caverns  of  the  sierra;  oth- 
ers are  firing  their  car- 
bines at  the  sun. 

"  Here,"  says  one  of 
the  guides,"  is  the  spot 
where  we  buried  Jose 
Mateos  last  week,  who 
was  killed  by  a  ball  in 
the  nape,  during  an  at- 
tack of  brigands.  The 
grave  has  been  dug 
open,  and  the 
body  is  gone." 


24  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"The  body  is  not  far,"  says  a  muleteer; 
"  I  see  it  floating,  swollen  like  a  water-bag, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine." 

"  Our  Lady  of  Atocha,  watch  over  us !" 
cried  the  dark  Andalusians,  indolently  sway- 
ing with  the  gait  of  their  mules. 

"  Whose  is  the  hut  on  that  point  of  rock  ?" 
asked  a  hidalgo  through  the  door  of  his 
chaise.  "  Is  it  the  cabin  of  the  wood-cut- 
ters who  have  thrown  those  gigantic  trunks 
into  the  foaming  gulf  of  the  torrent,  or  that 
of  the  herdsmen  who  lead  their  weary  goats 
upon  these  barren  slopes  ?" 

A  muleteer  answered :  "It  is  the  cell  of  an 
old  hermit  who  was  found  dead  this  autumn 
on  his  bed  of  leaves.  A  rope  was  knotted 
around  his  neck,  and  his  tongue  hung  out 
of  his  mouth." 

"  Our  Lady  of  Atocha,  watch  over  us  !" 
cried  the  dark  Andalusians,  indolently  sway- 
ing with  the  gait  of  their  mules. 

"  Those  three  horsemen  wrapped  in  their 
cloaks,  who  observed  us  so  closely  as  they 
passed,  are  not  of  our  band.  Who  are  they  ?" 
asked  a  monk  with  dusty  beard  and  robe. 

"  If  they  are  not  alguazils  from  Cienfuegos 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  25 

on  their  rounds,"  answered  a  muleteer,  "they 
are  robbers  sent  out  as  scouts  by  their  cap- 
tain, the  infernal  Gil  Pueblo." 

"Our  Lady  of  Atocha,  watch  over  us!" 
cried  the  dark  Andalusians,  indolently  sway- 
ing with  the  gait  of  their  mules. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  carbine-shot  among  the 
bushes  ?"  asked  an  ink  merchant  with  bare 
feet.  "  See  !  the  smoke  is  curling  in  the  air." 

A  muleteer  answered :  "  They  are  our  peo- 
ple beating  the  bushes  and  burning  cartridges 
to  distract  the  brigands.  Senors  and  Seno- 
rinas,  courage,  and  forward  with  both  spurs  !" 

"  Our  Lady  of  Atocha,  watch  over  us  !" 
cried  the  dark  Andalusians,  indolently  sway- 
ing with  the  gait  of  their  mules. 

And  all  the  travellers  started  on  a  gal- 
lop, in  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  dust  flaming 
under  the  sun  ;  the  mules  denied  between 
enormous  blocks  of  granite,  the  torrent 
roared  in  seething  eddies,  the  immense  for- 
ests bent,  cracking,  and  confusedly,  from 
those  profound  solitudes  moved  by  the  wind, 
arose  menacing  voices,  which  sounded  near- 
er, then  farther,  as  though  a  band  of  robbers 
were  lurking  in  the  neighborhood. 


26  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


MADAME   DE    MONTBAZON. 


Madame  de  Montbazon  was  a  most  beau- 
tiful being,  who  died  of  love  —  and  that 
literally  —  in  the  other  century,  for  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Rue,  who  loved  her  not. 
— Memoires  de  Saint-Simon. 


HE   maid  -  in  -  waiting  placed  a  vase 
of  flowers   upon   the  lacquer  ta- 
ble, and  arranged  the  wax-tapers, 
whose  reflections  watered  with  red 
and  yellow  the  blue  silk  curtains  hanging 
over  the  bed  of  the  suffering  lady. 

"Thinkest  thou,  Mariette,  that   he    will 
come  ?" 

"Oh,  sleep,  sleep  a  little,  Madame  !" 
"  Yes,  I  shall  soon  sleep,  to  dream  of  him 
throughout  eternity !" 

Some  one  was  now  heard  ascending  the 
stairs. 

"Ah,  if  that  were  he  !"  murmured  the  dying 


LOUIS    BERTRAND.  27 

lady,  smiling,  with  the  butterfly  of  the  tombs 
already  upon  her  lips. 

It  was  a  little  page  whom  the  Queen  had 
sent  to  Madame  la  Duchesse  with  sweet- 
meats, biscuits,  and  elixirs  on  a  silver  tray. 

"Ah,  he  does  not  come  !"  she  said,  in  fail- 
ing tones ;  "  he  will  not  come  !  Mariette, 
give  me  one  of  those  flowers,  that  I  may 
breathe  it  and  kiss  it  for  the  love  of  him !" 

Then  Madame  de  Montbazon,  closing  her 
eyes,  remained  motionless.  She  had  died 
of  love,  giving  up  her  soul  in  the  perfume 
of  a  hyacinth. 


28 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


PADRE 


PUGNACCIO. 


ADRE  PUGNACCIO,  his  cranium 
out  of  his  hood,  was  ascend- 
5*S3  ing  the  steps  in  the  dome  of 
Saint  Peter  between  two  penitents  wrapped 
in  mantillas ;  bells  could  be  heard  quarrel- 
ling in  the  clouds. 

One  of  the  penitents — it  was  the  aunt — 
counted  an  Ave  for  each  bead  of  her  rosary; 
and  the  other — it  was  the  niece — ogled  from 
out  the  corner  of  her  eyes  a  handsome  offi- 
cer of  the  Pope's  guards. 

The  monk  muttered  to  the 
old  woman,  "Make  a  donation 
to  my  .convent ;"  and  the  offi- 
cer slipped  a  perfumed  billet- 
doux  into  the  young  girl's 
hands. 

The  sinner  wiped  a  few  tears  from  her 


LOUIS    BERTRAND. 


29 


eyes;  the  maiden 
blushed  with  pleas- 
ure ;  the  monk  was 
calculating  the  inter- 
est of  a  thousand 
piastres  at  twelve  per 
cent,  and  the  officer 
was  gazing  at  himself 
in  a  hand-mirror  and 
curling  the  tips  of 
his  mustachios. 

And    the    devil, 
squatting  in   the  ca- 
pacious  sleeve   of   Padre    Pugnaccio,  chuc- 
kled like  Pulcinello. 


PAUL  LECLERCQ. 


33 


'. 

A  STORY  IN  WHITE. 
v- 

KITE  PIERROT,  in  his  white 
bed,  dreams  of  sombre  things. 

He  dreams  of  Columbine,  who  is  asleep 
near  him;  he  dreams  of  her  little  slipper, 
no  bigger  than  a  rose-leaf,  which  seems,  be- 
fore the  extinguished  hearth,  to  be  waiting 
sadly  for  Santa  Claus. 

The  pink  slipper  seems  to  be  waiting  be- 
fore the  extinguished  hearth,  but  poor  Pier- 
rot has  no  other  money  than  the  great  white 
flakes  gathering  slowly  on  the  roofs — money 
that  does  not  pass  current,  even  with  the 
good  God. 

Pierrot  thinks,  indeed,  of  borrowing  a  few 
golden  rays  from  the  moon,  who  is  looking 
3 


I. 

CHRISTMAS. 


34 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


at  him  through  the  casement,  but  she  dwells 
so  far,  that  money-lender  of  lovers  and  of 
Pierrots ! 

The  little  pink  slipper  is  still  waiting; 
Columbine  is  asleep. 
"  Arise,  friend 
Pierrot,  take  thy 
guitar,  that  old 
companion,  and 
seek  thy  fortune 
on  the  roofs.  The 
air  and  the  snow 
will  refresh  thy 
thoughts ;  they 
are  now  as  crook- 
ed as  a  crescent 
moon." 

And  off  Pier- 
rot goes,  skip- 
ping from  roof  to 
roof. 

By  the  light  of 

the  moon  Pierrot  skips  in  the  snow ;  the 
chimney-pots  look  like  great  ghosts,  but 
Pierrot  is  not  afraid,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon. 


PAUL   LECLERCQ. 


35 


"What  are  chimney-pots  for,  unless  it  be 
to  give  refuge  to  frozen  sparrows,  and  to 
offer  peep-holes  to  curious  Pierrots  ?"  thinks 
the,  lifting  himself  up  on  tiptoe  in  order  to 
see  better. 

Do  you  know  what  Pierrot  sees  ?  He 
sees  a  little  slipper,  almost  like  Columbine's, 
filled  with  roses  and  lilacs. 

Ah,  if  thy  arm  were  longer,  friend  Pier- 
rot! 

Weary,  discouraged,  Pierrot  rests  against 
a  chimney-pot.     With  his  head 
on   his  hands,  and  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  he  thinks  .  .  . 
he  thinks.  .  .  .  But  medi- 
tation brings  nothing  to 
the  unhappy.     Who 
knows  if  music  .... 

White  Pierrot,  on 
the  white  roof,  by  the 
light  of  the  moon, 
twangs  sadly  on  the 
guitar. 

Of  a  sudden,  he  feels  something  warm 
and  soft  brushing  against  him.  Fortune, 
perhaps. 


36  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

It  was  not  Fortune,  but  a  big  gutter-cat, 
all  black. 

"  Oh,  the  pretty  Christmas  present  for  Col- 
umbine !  A  cat — almost  a  child !" 

Pierrot  slings  his  guitar  on  his  shoulder, 
and  carrying  the  cat  in  his  arms,  betakes 
himself  homeward. 

He  reaches  the  garret  fagged  out,  chilled 
through,  black  with  soot;  he  runs  to  the 
hearth,  but,  alas  !  Columbine's  slipper  is  no 
longer  there.  The  little  slipper,  no  bigger 
than  a  rose-leaf,  has  blown  away — Colum- 
bine has  gone ! 

And,  forgotten  in  a  corner,  where  a  few 
hours  before  his  love  was  sleeping,  do  you 
know  what  he  found  ?  ^  ^.,, 

A  black  hat,  blacker  than  his      .^g£ 
cat,  a  hat  such  as  is  worn  nei- 1.  yiTiii fiii/ 
ther  by  Pierrots  nor  poets. 


Poor  Pierrot,  all  that  thou  hast  left  is 
a  cat,  a  guitar,  and  a  heart,  and  thou  hast 
not  paid  thy  rent  to  that  terrible  Dame 
Pipelet. 

Fly,  Pierrot,  fly  far  from  that  great  Paris 


PAUL    LECLERCQ.  37 

where  them  hast  so  much  loved,  so  much 
suffered  ;  fly  towards  the  silent  forests, 
where  thou  canst  wander  like  a  butterfly. 

Pierrot,  followed  by  his  cat,  walks  across 
the  country.  Where  is  he  going  to  ?  He 
knows  not ;  he  goes  straight  before  him  ;  his 
stomach  is  empty,  and  his  white  coat  is 
whipped  into  tatters  by  the  north  wind. 
But  Pierrot  feels  nothing  ;  he  meditates. 

The  hours  go  by.  Pierrot  walks,  walks 
on. 

The  sunset  falls  upon  the  plains  of 
snow.  Over  there,  far  away,  Paris  scintil- 
lates like  the  firmament.  Pierrot  contem- 
plates, in  the  silence  of  solitudes,  the  city 
whose  lamps  are  being  lighted.  It  seems 
to  him  that  the  little  lights  studding  its 
sombre  mass  reach  to  the  stars  to  weave 
him  a  shroud. 

The  moon  arises  from  behind  the  clouds ; 
mistress  of  ceremonies,  she  also  looks  at 
Paris,  with  her  great  red  face,  but  she  does 
not  weep. 

He  stands  there,  scrutinizing  the  dark- 
ened horizon ;  over  there  lies  all  that  he 
loves ;  behind  that  veil  is  Columbine. 


38  PASTELS   IN   PROSE. 

Pierrot,  in  tears,  throws  a  last  look  at 
Paris  which  disappears  with  his  memories, 
and  with  one  hand  he  wafts  it  a  kiss ;  then 
he  resumes  his  crazy  wanderings,  escorted 
by  his  cat. 

No,  thou  shalt  never  be  loved,  Pierrot; 
love  is  not  captured  by  dreams ;  thy  poet's 
nature  is  of  less  use  than  the  pocket-book 
of  the  poorest  bourgeois. 

Pierrot  walks,  walks  on. 

Towards  morning  he  entered  a  wood 
where  the  songs  of  the  birds,  his  brothers, 
attracted  him,  and  he  lay  down  under  a 
bush. 

While  he  was  sleeping  a  tomtit  perched 
on  his  mouth  and  pecked  at  it. 

"Thou  art  loved  at  last,  Pierrot!"  thought 
he,  on  awaking ;  "  the  tomtit  kisses  thee ; 
she  loves  thee !" 

"She  took  thy  mouth  for  a  cherry,"  mur- 
mured a  sly  woodpecker, 
in. 

BY  THE 
LIGHT  O'THE 

Years  have  gone  by ;  Pierrot  is  very  ill ; 
white  Pierrot  is  on  the  point  of  death. 
At  the  foot  of  a  willow -tree,  among  the 


PAUL    LECLERCQ.  39 

grasses  and  the  corn-flowers,  two  little  tombs 
lie  side  by  side. 

On  one  a  few  white  roses  are  in  flower ; 
it  is  Columbine's.  On  the  other  run  wild 
weeds  ;  it  is  the  Muse's. 

Pierrot  gazes  upon  both  tombs  and  re- 
members—  remembers  that  he  has  always 
been  ungrateful.  He  has  placed  roses  upon 
the  tomb  of  a  faithless  one  who  has  broken 
his  heart ;  he  has  wept  for  a  hypocrite  who 
had  always  mocked  him,  while  he  had  al- 
lowed the  weeds  to  mould  upon  the  tomb  of 
the  Muse,  who  alone  in  the  world  had  never 
abandoned  him. 

Ah,  how  he  remembered  all !  He  saw 
his  past  life  in  a  dream,  and  regretted  that 
he  had  lived. 

Pierrot  is  very  ill ;  white  Pierrot  is  going 
to  die. 

He  lies  down  among  the  high  grasses  on 
the  neglected  tomb  of  the  Muse,  and  waits. 

He  waits,  before  dying,  for  the  moon  to 
light  him  a  last  time  with  her  rays ;  he  waits 
for  the  pale  twinkling  of  the  friendly  stars 
to  guide  his  soul  to  heaven. 

The  angelus  tolls  afar,  the  birds  sing,  the 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


night  falls.  Lying  among  the  high  grasses 
on  the  neglected  tomb,  white  Pierrot  blows 
a  last  kiss  to  Columbine,  and  falls  into  ever- 
lasting sleep,  shrouded  in  a  ray  of  the  moon. 


THEODORE   DE    BANVILLE. 


43 


A  GREAT  corbel  of  Roses  and  a  great  cor- 
bel of  Lilies  both  burst  into  flower  at  the 
same  time  in  the  garden  of  the  poet.  The 
Lilies  and  the  Roses  are  intoxicated  with 
joy.  The  soft  summer  wind  caresses  them 
and  the  sun  kisses  them,  and  makes  the 
clear  colors  of  their  corals  sparkle  like  the 
fires  of  precious  stones.  With  a  voice  that 
makes  no  sound,  and  yet  that  can  be  heard, 
with  the  mysterious  voice  that  emanates 
from  things  believed  to  be  inanimate,  they 
say,  swaying  in  the  light  : 

"  We,  the  Flowers,  are  happy,  because  we 
live  in  the  garden  of  the  good  poet,  where 
we  perform  our  proper  functions,  and  where 
we  exist  purely  and  simply  as  Flowers,  with- 
out fear  of  furnishing  a  pretext  for  classical 
tropes  and  of  being  used  as  terms  of  com- 


44  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

parison.  And  as  no  philistine  and  no  sayer 
of  commonplaces  will  enter  the  garden,  no- 
body will  pretend  that  we  have  any  rela- 
tions with  the  winged  butterflies — which  is 
as  absurd  as  to  suppose  any  love  between 
doves  and  crocodiles.  And  we,  the  Lilies 
with  the  straight  petals  and  green  chalices 
— we  will  gloriously  uplift  our  golden  pistils  ; 
and  we,  the  blushing  Roses  with  ecstatic 
hearts — we  will  bloom  for  no  reason  at  all, 
for  the  simple  pleasure  of  it,  without  being 
constrained  to  affirm  the  pretended  white- 
ness of  red  or  green  women,  and  without 
the  humiliation  of  being  compared  to  any 
young  lady." 


THEODORE   DE   BANVILLE.  45 


THE  ANGELS. 

GREATER  and  taller  than  our  minds  can 
figure  them,  through  the  immense  ether 
where  swarm  the  Infinites,  and  where  the 
groups  of  worlds  seem  but  specks  of  a 
vague  dust,  three  silent  Angels,  intrusted 
with  important  messages,  hasten  their  ver- 
tiginous flight.  They  are  mounted  on  white 
horses  of  light,  and  clad  in  armor  of  scarlet 
diamond,  to  fight,  if  necessary,  the  monsters 
and  hydras.  They  rush  forward,  causing 
the  comets  to  flee,  striking  the  frightened 
constellations,  and,  as  they  pass,  brushing 
aside  with  their  imperious  fingers  the  manes 
of  the  suns.  They  are  Malushiel  of  the 
fiery  locks,  who  was  the  teacher  of  the 
prophet  Elijah;  Saramiel,  the  Shield  of  God; 
and  Metator,  the  greatest  of  the  Cherubim, 
he  whose  dazzling  white  beard  floats  to  his 


46  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

knees ;  and  in  their  midst  rides  the  young 
Angel  Uriel.  While  his  horse  is  at  full  gal- 
lop the  child  Angel,  clutching  its  mane  and 
bending  down,  picks  up  on  the  road  an  in- 
significant little  ball,  and  in  sport  is  about 
to  fling  it,  with  his  yet  feeble  hands,  over 
millions  of  Infinites;  but  the  wise  Metator 
arrests  his  arm. 

"  Drop  it,"  he  says. 

"  Ah !"  says  Uriel,  lifting  his,  innocent 
eyes,  which  mirror  the  deep  skies,  "is  it  of 
any  use,  this  little  ball  ?" 

"No,"  answers  the  Messenger,  "it  is  not 
of  much  use,  but  drop  it,  nevertheless.  It 
is  the  Earth !" 


THEODORE    DE    BANVILLE.  47 


REMEMBRANCE. 

SHE  and  He,  the  two  Souls,  the  two  Lights, 
the  two  blissful  Spirits,  Thero  and  Celmis, 
transfigured  by  a  gigantic  grace,  united,  lean- 
ing against  each  other  in  close  embrace,  ad- 
vance with  rhythmic  steps  through  the  clear 
Paradises.  They  have  crossed  the  cities  of 
diamond,  whose  spires  press  together,  and 
the  high  forest  of  violets,  and  the  calm  river 
as  wide  as  twenty  oceans,  and  the  bank  with 
a  single  rose-tree,  whose  branches  laden  with 
flowers  cast  their  shade  upon  the  great  wa- 
ters. Softly  ravished  by  the  resonance  of 
subtle  perfumes  and  by  the  strains  of  silent 
music,  they  enter  a  large  glade,  whence  they 
can  perceive  in  the  infinite  ether  all  the 
flocks  of  the  stars  and  the  constellations. 

"  See,"  said  Celmis,  "gaze  afar  upon  that 
small  and  fugitive  spark.  It  is  the  Earth. 


48  PASTELS   IN   PROSE. 

Dost  thou  still  remember  that  we  once  dwelt 
there  ?  Yes,  many  thousands  and  thousands 
of  centuries  before  the  sacred  and  triumphal 
hour,  overflowing  with  bliss,  when  at  last  we 
saw,  in  the  ecstasy  of  the  light  flaming  with 
gladness,  what  cannot  be  expressed  even  in 
celestial  words ;  before  we,  ever  renovated, 
rejuvenated,  and  strengthened,  had  inhabited 
so  many  planets  and  stars ;  before  the  long 
persistence  of  a  mutual  love  had  made  us 
exactly  alike,  so  that  my  form  reflects  thine 
like  a  mirror,  and  the  angels  cannot  distin- 
guish our  thoughts  and  the  flames  of  our 
hair;  yes,  long  before  that,  we  inhabited 
that  vague  and  distant  point ;  and  we  even 
knew  something  there  that  was  called  suf- 
fering; but  I  can  no  longer  remember  what 
it  was !" 


THEODORE   DE   DANVILLE. 


49 


HARLEQUIN. 


E  has  stolen  from  the  cat 
his  agile  grace,  and  from 
the  pug-dog  his  black  and 
whiskered  face.  He  has 
taken  from  the  king  a 
piece  of  his  purple  robe,  from  the  Jew  a  piece 
of  his  yellow  robe,  from  the  spring  a  piece 
of  its  green  robe,  and  with  these  rags  he  has 
made  for  himself  a  monkey's  dress,  that  fits 
closely  to  his  lithe  and  graceful  form.  He 
has  slipped  through  his  belt  of  red  leather 
a  lath  covered  with  fair  white  skin,  which, 
before  striking,  tickles  and  caresses  ;  his  red 
shoes,  in  which  there  is  quicksilver,  trace 
without  repose  the  figure  of  a  lawless  dance, 
and  out  of  a  cloud  he  has  cut  his  hat  that 
forever  changes  its  shape. 
4 


50  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Thus,  waited  upon  like  a  king,  skilful  as 
a  Jew,  ever  young  like  the  immortal  April  in 
bloom,  he  flies  through  the  cities  and  the 
fields,  amorously  followed  by  white  Colum- 
bas  and  Columbines,  who,  seeing  that  he 
has  wherewith  to  stun,  to  dazzle,  and  to 
beat  them,  adore  the  horrible  and  charming 
monster.  And  he,  fluttering  like  the  hide- 
ous butterfly  with  brilliant  wings,  embraces 
them  in  his  flexible  arms.  He  amuses, 
courts,  caresses,  and  beats  them  ;  and  drag- 
ging them  after  him  in  his  vertiginous  dance 
through  enchanted  and  conquered  Nature, 
he  forces  them  to  kiss  his  ugly  dog's  mug 
— and  that  is  Harlequin ! 


THEODORE    BE    BANVILLE.  51 


THE   GODDESS. 


|  HE  has  opened  an  immense 
hole  in  the  soft  ground,  which 
she  quickly  digs  up  with  her 
skeleton  fingers,  and  bending  her 
ribs  and  inclining  her  white  smooth 
•  -?  "-YV?  skull,  she  heaps  together  in  the 
abysm  old  men  and  youths,  wom- 
en and  children,  cold,  pale  and  stiff,  whose 
lids  she  silently  closes. 

"  Ah  !"  sighs  the  dreamer,  who  sadly  and 
with  heavy  heart  sees  her  accomplish  her 
work,  "  accursed,  accursed  be  thou,  destroy- 
er of  beings,  detestable  and  cruel  Death,  and 
mayest  thou  be  dominated  and  desolated  by 
the  ever-renewed  floods  of  immortal  Life  !" 
The  grave-digger  has  arisen.  She  turns 
her  face ;  she  is  now  made  of  pink  and 
charming  flesh  ;  her  friendly  brow  is  crowned 


52  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

with  rosy  corals.  She  bears  in  her  arms 
fair  naked  children,  who  laugh  to  the  sky, 
and  she  says  softly  to  the  dreamer,  while 
gazing  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  joy : 

"  I  am  she  who  accomplishes  without 
cease  and  without  end  the  transformation 
of  all.  Beneath  my  fingers  the  flowers  that 
have  become  cinders  bloom  once  more,  and 
I  am  both  She  whom  thou  namest  Death, 
and  She  whom  thou  namest  Life  !" 


THEODORE   DE    DANVILLE.  53 


THE   INEFFABLE. 

"  WHAT  !"  murmur  the  humiliated  souls, 
gazing  at  one  another  with  horror ;  "  we, 
heavy  with  sins  and  hatred,  and  defiled  with 
black  stains,  we  are  welcomed,  O  pity !  in 
the  refreshing  light  of  Truth,  and  in  the  rav- 
ishment which  is  never  to  end  !" 

"  Oh,  dear  Souls !"  says  the  sweet  Child 
clad  in  whiteness  amid  the  light,  calm,  and 
lifting  his  victorious  hands  as  when  he  spake 
before  the  doctors,  "  do  you  not  understand 
that  my  pity  is  an  ever-flowing  river  ?  Ah, 
do  not  thrill  with  terror,  but  fly  with  sure 
wings  towards  the  candor  of  the  pure  lilies, 
and  towards  the  immortal  glory  of  the  roses  ! 
For  He  who  fashioned  you  with  His  hands 
can  also  wash  and  efface  your  crimes  in  the 
flood  of  His  immense  love." 

And  while  the  walls  of  iron,  the  sad  frozen 


54  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

lakes,  the  citadels  of  brass,  the  red  smoking 
braziers,  and  the  fearful  circles  of  Night,  de- 
voured by  the  ecstatic  light,  grow  dim  and 
vanish,  the  arches,  the  stair-ways,  and  the 
pillars  of  Paradise  mount,  one  upon  anoth- 
er, far  up  into  the  azure,  rising  towards 
the  palaces  and  the  gardens  of  bliss — open, 
quivering,  ravished,  filling  the  diamonded 
day  of  the  innumerable  Infinites ;  and,  un- 
der the  whitening  lightning  of  myriads  of 
stars,  the  Souls,  like  a  swarming  flight  of 
blue  butterflies,  ascend,  charmed  by  the 
rhythm  of  the  triumphal  ode,  up  to  the  flam- 
ing whiteness,  where  shudders  and  begins 
already  the  vague  reflection  of  what  cannot 
be  expressed  in  human  words. 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET. 


57 


THE   DEATH    OF 

THE   DAUPHIN. 

HE  little  Dauphin  is  ill ;  the 
little  Dauphin  is  dying.  In 
all  the  churches  of  the  king- 
dom the  Holy  Sacrament  remains 
exposed  night  and  day,  and  great  tapers 
burn,  for  the  recovery  of  the  royal  child. 
The  streets  of  the  old  capital  are  sad  and 
silent,  the  bells  ring  no  more,  the  carriages 
slacken  their  pace.  In  the  neighborhood 
of  the  palace  the  curious  towns-people  gaze 
through  the  railings  upon  the  beadles  with 
gilded  paunches,  who  converse  in  the  courts 
and  put  on  important  airs. 

All  the  castle  is  in  a  flutter.  Chamber- 
lains and  major-domos  run  up  and  down 
the  marble  stair-ways.  The  galleries  are  full 
of  pages  and  of  courtiers  in  silken  apparel, 
who  hurry  from  one  group  to  another,  beg- 


58  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

ging  in  low  tones  for  news.  Upon  the  wide 
perrons  the  maids  of  honor,  in  tears,  ex- 
change low  courtesies  and  wipe  their  eyes 
with  daintily  embroidered  handkerchiefs. 

A  large  assemblage  of  robed  physicians 
has  gathered  in  the  Orangery.  They  can 
be  seen  through  the  panes  waving  their  long 
black  sleeves  and  inclining  their  periwigs 
with  professional  gestures.  The  governor 
and  the  equerry  of  the  little  Dauphin  walk  up 
and  down  before  the  door  awaiting  the  de- 
cision of  the  Faculty.  Scullions  pass  by  with- 
out saluting  them.  The  equerry  swears  like 
a  pagan ;  the  governor  quotes  verses  from 
Horace. 

And  meanwhile,  over  there,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stables,  is  heard  a  long  and 
plaintive  neighing;  it  is  the  little  Dauphin's 
sorrel,  forgotten  by  the  hostlers,  and  calling 
sadly  before  his  empty  manger. 

And  the  King?  Where  is  his  Highness 
the  King  ?  The  King  has  locked  himself 
up  in  a  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  castle. 
Majesties  do  not  like  to  be  seen  weeping. 
For  the  Queen  it  is  different.  Sitting  by  the 
bedside  of  the  little  Dauphin,  she  bows  her 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET.  59 

fair  face,  bathed  in  tears,  and  sobs  very  loud- 
ly before  everybody,  like  a  mere  draper's 
wife. 

On  the  bed  embroidered  with  lace  the 
little  Dauphin,  whiter  than  the  pillows  on 
which  he  is  extended,  lies  with  closed  eyes. 
They  think  that  he  is  asleep ;  but  no,  the 
little  Dauphin  is  not  asleep.  He  turns  tow- 
ards his  mother,  and  seeing  her  tears,  he 
asks: 

"  Madame  la  Reine,  why  do  you  weep  ? 
Do  you  really  believe  that  I  am  going  to 
die  ?" 

The  Queen  tries  to  answer.  Sobs  pre- 
vent her  from  speaking. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Madame  la  Reine.  You 
forget  that  I  am  the  Dauphin,  and  that  Dau- 
phins cannot  die  thus." 

The  Queen  sobs  more  violently,  and  the 
little  Dauphin  begins  to  feel  frightened. 

"  Holloa  !"  says  he,  "  I  do  not  want  Death 
to  come  and  take  me  away,  and  I  know  how 
to  prevent  him  from  coming  here.  Or- 
der up  on  the  spot  forty  of  the  strongest 
lansquenets  to  keep  guard  around  our  bed  ! 
Have  a  hundred  big  cannons  watch  day  and 


60  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

night,  with  lighted  fuses,  under  our  windows ! 
And  woe  to  Death  if  he  dares  to  come  near 
us !" 

In  order  to  humor  the  royal  child,  the 
Queen  makes  a  sign.  On  the  spot  the  great 
cannons  are  heard  rolling  in  the  courts,  and 
forty  tall  lansquenets,  with  halberds  in  their 
fists,  draw  up  around  the  room.  They  are 
all  veterans,  with  grizzly  mustaches.  The 
little  Dauphin  claps  his  hands  on  seeing 
them.  He  recognizes  one,  and  calls, 

"  Lorrain  !   Lorrain  !" 

The  veteran  makes  a  step  towards  the 
bed. 

"  I  love  you  well,  my  old  Lorrain.  Let 
me  see  your  big  sword.  If  Death  wants  to 
fetch  me,  you  will  kill  him,  won't  you  ?" 

Lorrain  answers  : 

"  Yes,  Monseigneur." 

And  two  great  tears  roll  down  his  tanned 
cheeks. 

At  that  moment  the  chaplain  approaches 
the  little  Dauphin,  and  pointing  to  the  cru- 
cifix, talks  to  him  in  low  tones.  The  little 
Dauphin  listens  with  astonished  air;  then, 
suddenly  interrupting  him, 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET.  6  I 

"I  understand  well  what  you  are  saying, 
Monsieur  1'Abbe;  but  still,  couldn't  my  little 
friend  Beppo  die  in  my  place,  if  I  gave  him 
plenty  of  money  ?" 

The  chaplain  continues  to  talk  to  him  in 
low  tones,  and  the  little  Dauphin  looks  more 
and  more  astonished. 

When  the  chaplain  has  finished,  the  little 
Dauphin  resumes,  with  a  heavy  sigh  : 

"  What  you  have  said  is  all  very  sad, 
Monsieur  1'Abbe ;  but  one  thing  consoles 
me,  and  that  is  that  up  there,  in  the  Para- 
dise of  the  stars,  I  shall  still  be  the  Dau- 
phin. I  know  that  the  good  God  is  my 
cousin,  and  cannot  fail  to  treat  me  accord- 
ing to  my  rank." 

Then  he  adds,  turning  towards  his  mother: 

"  Bring  me  my  fairest  clothes,  my  doub- 
let of  white  ermine,  and  my  pumps  of  vel- 
vet! I  wish  to  look  brave  to  the  angels, 
and  to  enter  Paradise  in  the  dress  of  a 
Dauphin." 

A  third  time  the  chaplain  bends  over  the 
little  Dauphin,  and  talks  to  him  in  low 
tones.  In  the  midst  of  his  discourse  the 
royal  child  interrupts  him  angrily. 


62 


PASTELS   IN   PROSE. 


"Why,  then,"  he  cries,  "to  be  Dauphin  is 
nothing  at  all !" 

And  refusing  to  listen  to  anything  more, 
the  little  Dauphin  turns  towards  the  wall 
and  weeps  bitterly. 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET.  63 


THE   SOUS-PREFET  AFIELD. 

MONSIEUR  the  sous-Prefet  is  on  his  rounds. 
With  coachman  before  and  lackey  behind, 
the  barouche  of  the  sous-prefecture  carries 
him  majestically  to  the  agricultural  fair  of 
the  Combe-aux-Fees.  For  that  memorable 
day  Monsieur  the  sous-Prefet  has  put  on  his 
best  embroidered  coat,  his  little  cocked  hat, 
his  tight-fitting  breeches  with  silver  bands, 
and  his  gala  sword  with  hilt  of  mother-of- 
pearl.  Upon  his  lap  lies  a  great  portfolio 
of  embossed  shagreen,  upon  which  he  gazes 
sadly. 

Monsieur  the  sous-Prdfet  gazes  sadly  on 
his  portfolio  of  embossed  shagreen ;  he  is 
thinking  of  the  famous  speech  which  he  will 
have  to  make  presently  before  the  citizens 
of  the  Combe-aux-Fees.  But  although  he 
twists  the  blond  silk  of  his  whiskers,  and  re- 


64  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 

peats,  twenty  times  over,  "Messieurs  et  chers 
administr'es,"  the  rest  of  the  speech  does  not 
come. 

The  rest  of  the  speech  does  not  come.  It 
is  so  hot  in  the  barouche  !  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  the  road  of  the  Combe-aux- 
Fe'es  powders  under  the  sun  of  the  South. 
The  air  is  scorching,  and  in  the  elms  that 
border  the  road,  all  covered  with  white  dust, 
thousands  of  cicadas  answer  one  another 
from  tree  to  tree.  Suddenly  Monsieur  the 
sous-Prefet  gives  a  start.  Over  there,  at 
the  foot  of  a  slope,  he  has  just  perceived  a 
little  wood  of  green  oaks  that  beckons  to 
him. 

The  little  wood  of  green  oaks  seems  to 
beckon  to  him. 

"  Come  this  way,  Monsieur  the  sous-Pre- 
fet; to  compose  your  speech,  you  will  be 
much  more  comfortable  under  my  trees." 

Monsieur  the  sous-Prefet  is  tempted.  He 
jumps  from  his  barouche,  and  tells  his  serv- 
ants to  wait  for  him ;  that  he  is  going  to 
compose  his  speech  in  the  little  wood  of 
green  oaks. 

In  the  little  wood  of  green  oaks  there  are 


ALPHONSE    DAUDKT.  65 

birds,  violets,  and  springs  under  the  tender 
grass.  As  soon  as  they  saw  Monsieur  the 
sous-Prefet,  with  his  fine  breeches  and  his 
portfolio  of  embossed  shagreen,  the  birds 
felt  frightened  and  stopped  singing,  the 
springs  no  longer  dared  to  make  any  noise, 
and  the  violets  hid  themselves  in  the  sward. 
That  little  world  had  never  seen  a  sous-pre'- 
fet,  and  asks  itself,  in  low  tones,  who  that 
fine  seigneur  was  who  walked  about  in  sil- 
ver breeches. 

In  low  tones,  under  the  leafage,  they  ask 
themselves  who  that  fine  seigneur  is  in  sil- 
ver breeches.  Meanwhile  Monsieur  the 
sous-Prefet,  delighted  with  the  silence  and 
the  coolness  of  the  wood,  lifts  his  coat-tails, 
deposits  his  cocked  hat  on  the  grass,  and 
sits  in  the  moss  at  the  foot  of  a  young  oak. 
Then  he  opens  on  his  knees  his  great  port- 
folio of  embossed  shagreen,  and  takes  from 
it  a  large  sheet  of  official  foolscap. 

"  He  is  an  artist,"  says  a  warbler. 

"  No,"  says  a  bullfinch,  "  he  is  not  an 
artist,  since  he  wears  silver  breeches ;  he  is 
rather  a  prince." 

"  He  is  rather  a  prince,"  says  the  bull-finch. 


66  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  Neither  an  artist  nor  a  prince,"  inter- 
rupts an  old  nightingale,  who  has  sung  for 
a  whole  season  in  the  gardens  of  the  sous- 
prefecture  ;  "  I  know  what  he  is ;  he  is  a 
sous-prefet." 

And  all  the  little  wood  goes  whispering : 

"  He  is  a  sous-pre'fet !  He  is  a  sous-pre- 
fet !" 

"  How  bald  he  is  !"  remarks  a  lark  with  a 
great  tuft  on  his  head. 

The  violets  ask: 

"Is  it  dangerous?"' 

"  Is  it  dangerous  ?"  ask  the  violets. 

The  old  nightingale  answers  : 

"  Not  at  all !" 

And  upon  that  assurance  the  birds  re- 
commence to  sing,  the  springs  to  run,  the 
violets  to  shed  their  perfume,  as  though  the 
gentleman  were  not  there.  Unconscious 
amid  all  the  merry  din,  Monsieur  the  sous- 
Prefet  invokes  in  his  heart  the  Muse  of  ag- 
ricultural fairs,  and  with  lifted  pencil  begins 
to  declaim  in  ceremonial  tones  : 

"  Messieurs  et  chers  administres — 

"Messieurs  et  chers  administres"  says  the 
sous-Prefet,  in  ceremonial  tones. 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET.  67 

A  burst  of  laughter  interrupts  him  ;  he 
turns  around  and  sees  nothing  but  a  fat 
woodpecker  perched  upon  his  cocked  hat, 
who  looks  at  him  and  laughs.  The  sous- 
Prefet  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  tries  to  con- 
tinue his  speech ;  but  the  woodpecker  inter- 
rupts him  anew,  and  calls  out  from  afar : 

"  What  is  the  use  ?" 

"  How,  what  is  the  use !"  says  the  sous- 
Pre'fet,  who  gets  quite  red ;  and  chasing 
away  the  impudent  bird  with  a  gesture,  he 
begins  afresh  : 

"Messieurs  et  chers  Administres — '' 

"Messieurs  et  chers  Administres"  begins 
the  sous-Prefet  afresh. 

But  lo !  the  little  violets  lift  themselves 
up  towards  him  on  the  tips  of  their  stems, 
and  softly  say  : 

"  Monsieur  le  sous-Pre'fet,  do  you  perceive 
how  good  we  smell  ?" 

And  the  springs  make  a  divine  music  un- 
der the  moss,  and  in  the  branches  over  his 
head  many  warblers  come  and  sing  him  their 
pretty  tunes ;  and  all  the  little  wood  conspires 
to  prevent  him  from  composing  his  speech. 

All  the  little  wood  conspires  to  prevent 


68  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

him  from  composing  his  speech.  Monsieur 
the  sous-Prefet,  drunk  with  perfumes,  dazed 
by  music,  attempts  vainly  to  resist  the  new 
charm  that  invades  his  being.  He  leans  on 
his  elbows  in  the  grass,  unbuttons  his  fine 
coat,  stammers  again  twice  or  thrice  : 

"•Messieurs  et  chers  Administres  ....  Mes- 
sieurs et chers  Admi Messieurs  et chers . ..." 

Then  he  sends  the  administres  to  the  devil, 
and  the  Muse  of  agricultural  fairs  has  now 
but  to  veil  her  face. 

Veil  thy  face,  O  Muse  of  agricultural  fairs ! 
When,  at  the  end  of  one  hour,  the  servants 
of  the  sous-prefecture,  anxious  about  their 
master,  entered  the  little  wood,  they  saw  a 
sight  that  made  them  recoil  with  horror. 
Monsieur  the  sous-Prefet  was  lying  on  his 
stomach  in  the  grass,  as  untidy  as  a  bo- 
hemian.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat ;  and 
while  chewing  violets,  Monsieur  the  sous- 
Prdfet  was  composing  verses. 


VILLIERS    DE   LISLE-ADAM.  71 


VOX  POPULI. 

GRAND  review  at  the  Champs-Elysees  that 
day ! 

Twelve  years  have  been  suffered  since 
that  vision.  A  summer  sun  shattered  its 
long  arrows  of  gold  against  the  roofs  and 
domes  of  the  ancient  capital.  Thousands 
of  panes  reflected  its  dazzling  rays;  the  peo- 
ple, bathed  in  a  powdery  light,  thronged  the 
streets  to  gaze  at  the  army. 

Sitting  upon  a  high  wooden  stool  before 
the  railing  of  the  parvis  of  Notre  Dame,  his 
knees  folded  under  black  rags,  his  hands 
joined  under  the  placard  that  legally  sanc- 
tioned his  blindness,  the  centenarian  beg- 
gar, patriarch  of  the  Misery  of  Paris  —  a 
mournful  face  of  ashen  tint,  with  skin  fur- 
rowed by  wrinkles  of  the  color  of  earth — 


72  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

lent  his  shadowy  presence  to  the  Te  Deum 
of  the  surrounding  festival. 

All  these  people,  were  they  not  his  breth- 
ren ?  The  joyous  passers-by,  were  they  not 
his  kin  ?  Were  they  not  human,  like  him  ? 
Besides,  that  guest  of  the  sovereign  portal 
was  not  entirely  destitute :  the  State  had 
recognized  his  right  to  be  blind. 

Clothed  with  the  title  and  respectability 
implied  in  the  official  right  to  receive  alms, 
enjoying,  moreover,  a  voter's  privilege,  he 
was  our  equal — except  in  light. 

And  that  man,  forgotten,  as  it  were,  among 
the  living,  articulated  from  time  to  time  a 
monotonous  plaint — evident  syllabification 
of  the  profound  sighs  of  his  whole  life- 
time: 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please!" 


Around  him,  beneath  the  powerful  vibra- 
tions fallen  from  the  belfry — outside,  yon- 
der, beyond  the  wall  of  his  eyes — the  tram- 
pling of  cavalry,  the  intermittent  braying  of 
trumpets,  acclamations  mingled  with  salvoes 
of  artillery  from  the  Inralides  with  the  proud 


VILLIERS    DE    L  ISLE-ADAM.  73 

shouts  of  command,  the  rattle  of  steel,  and 
the  thunder  of  drums  scanning  the  inter- 
minable march  of  the  passing  infantry,  a  ru- 
mor of  glory  reached  him !  His  trained 
hearing  caught  even  the  rustle  of  the  float- 
ing standards  whose  heavy  fringes  brushed 
against  the  cuirasses.  In  the  mind  of  the 
old  captive  of  obscurity  a  thousand  flashes 
of  sensation  evoked  visions  foreknown  yet 
indistinct.  A  sort  of  divination  informed 
him  of  what  fevered  the  hearts  and  thoughts 
of  the  city. 

And  the  people,  fascinated,  as  always,  by 
the  prestige  that  comes  from  strokes  of  bold- 
ness and  fortune,  clamored  its  prayer  of  the 

moment : 

• 

"  Long  live  the  Emperor  !" 

But  during  the  lulls  of  the  triumphal 
tempest  a  lost  voice  arose  in  the  direction 
of  the  mystic  railing.  The  old  man,  his 
neck  thrown  back  against  the  pillory  of 
bars,  rolling  his  dead  eyeballs  towards  the 
sky,  forgotten  by  that  people  of  which  he 
seemed  alone  to  express  the  genuine  prayer, 
the  prayer  hidden  under  the  hurrahs,  the 
secret  and  personal  prayer,  droned,  like 


74  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

an   augural  interceder,  his  now  mysterious 
phrase  : 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please  !'' 


Grand  review  at  the  Champs-Elysees  that 
day ! 

Now  ten  years  have  flown  since  the  sun 
of  that  festival — same  sounds,  same  voices, 
same  smoke.  A  sordine,  however,  tempered 
the  tumult  of  the  public  rejoicings.  A  shad- 
ow weighed  on  the  eyes  of  all.  The  cere- 
monial salvoes  from  the  platform  of  the  Pry- 
taneum  were  crossed  this  time  by  the  distant 
growls  of  the  batteries  in  our  forts ;  and 
straining  their  ears,  the  people  sought  al- 
ready to  distinguish  in  the  echoes  the  answer 
of  the  enemy's  approaching  cannon. 

The  Governor,  borne  by  the  ambling  trot 
of  his  thorough-bred,  passed,  smiling  upon 
all.  The  people,  reassured  by  the  confi- 
dence which  an  irreproachable  demeanor 
always  inspires,  alternated  with  patriotic 
songs  the  military  applause  with  which  they 
honored  the  presence  of  the  soldier. 

But  the  syllables  of  the  furious  cheer  of 


VILLIERS   DE    LISLE-ADAM.  75 

yore  had  been  modified  ;  the  distracted  peo- 
ple preferred  the  prayer  of  the  moment : 

"  Long  live  the  Republic  !" 

And  yonder,  in  the  direction  of  the  sub- 
lime threshold,  could  still  be  distinguished 
the  solitary  voice  of  Lazarus.  The  sayer  of 
the  hidden  thought  of  the  people  did  not 
modify  the  rigidity  of  his  fixed  plaint.  Sin- 
cere soul  of  the  festival,  uplifting  his  extin- 
guished eyes  to  the  sky,  he  cried  out,  during 
the  silences,  with  the  accent  of  one  making 
a  statement  : 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please  !" 


Grand  review  at  the  Champs-Elysees  that 
day  ! 

Now  nine  months  have  been  endured 
since  that  troubled  sun.  Oh  !  same  rumors, 
same  clashing  of  arms,  same  neighing  of 
horses,  more  muffled,  however,  than  the  pre- 
vious year,  but  yet  noisy. 

"  Long  live  the  Commune  !"  shouted  the 
people  to  the  passing  wind. 

And  the  voice  of  the  secular  Elect  of 
Misfortune  still  repeated,  yonder  upon  the 


76  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

sacred  threshold,  his  refrain  that  connected 
the  unique  thought  of  the  people.  Raising 
his  trembling  head  to  the  sky,  he  moaned  in 
the  shadow : 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please !" 


And  two  moons  later,  when,  to  the  last 
vibrations  of  the  tocsin,  the  generalissimo 
of  the  regular  forces  of  the  State  reviewed 
his  two  hundred  thousand  guns,  still  smok- 
ing, alas !  from  the  sad  civil  war,  the  terri- 
fied people  shouted,  while  gazing  upon  the 
edifices  flaming  afar : 

"  Long  live  the  Marshal !" 

Yonder,  in  the  direction  of  the  pure  en- 
closure, the  immutable  voice  of  the  veteran 
of  human  misery  mechanically  repeated  his 
dolorous  and  piteous  observation  : 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please  !" 


And  since  then,  from  year  to  year,  from 
review  to  review,  from  vociferations  to  vo- 
ciferations, whatever  might  be  the  name 
thrown  to  the  hazards  of  space  by  the  cheer- 


VILLIERS    DE    LISLE-ADAM.  77 

ing  people,  those  who  listen  attentively  to 
the  sounds  of  the  earth  have  always  distin- 
guished, above  the  revolutionary  clamors 
and  the  warlike  festivals  that  followed,  the 
far-away  Voice,  the  true  Voice,  the  intimate 
Voice  of  the  terrible  symbolical  beggar,  of 
the  incorruptible  sentinel  of  the  citizens' 
conscience,  of  him  who  restores  integrally 
the  occult  prayer  of  the  Crowd  and  ex- 
presses its  sighs. 

Inflexible  Pontiff  of  fraternity,  that  au- 
thorized   titulary   of    physical    blind- 
ness, has    never  ceased,  like   an 
unconscious    mediator,    to    in- 
voke the  divine  charity  upon 
his  brethren  in  intelligence. 

And  when,  intoxicated  with 
fanfares,  with  peals  of  bells 
and  with  artillery,  the  people, 
dazed  by  the  flattering  uproar, 
endeavors  vainly,  under  what- 
ever syllables  falsely  enthusiastic,  to  hide 
from  itself  its  veritable  prayer,  the  beggar, 
groping  through  the  sky,  his  arms  uplifted, 
his  face  towards  the  heavy  darkness,  arises 
on  the  eternal  threshold  of  the  church,  and 


78  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

seem,  however,  to  carry  beyond  the  stars, 
in  tones  more  and  more  lamentable,  which 
continues  to  cry  his  prophetic  rectifica- 
tion : 

"  Have  pity  on  the  blind,  if  you  please !" 


GEORGE    AURIOL. 


8l 


THE  HARPSICHORD  OF  YEDDO. 


UPON  an  old  harpsichord  of  the  time  of 
Marie  Antoinette — that  has  found  its  way, 

no  one  knows 
how,  to  the  coun- 
try of  the  Mika- 
dos  —  the  frivo- 


lous Lou-Laou-Ti 
plays  a  love-song. 
Perched  upon  the  unsteady 
stool,  like  a  doll  upon  a 
stand,  with  head  thrown  back,  the  young  girl 
sings  softly.  Her  white  and  delicate  fingers 
6 


82  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

dance  madly  upon  the  yellowed  ivory,  then 
sweep  very  gravely  over  the  keys  of  ebony, 
and  recommence  to  flutter  distractedly  hither 
and  thither.  The  harpsichord,  with  its  clear 
and  caressing  voice,  seems,  under  the  witch- 
ery of  the  little  fairy,  to  find  in  its  old  heart 
shudders,  murmurs,  and  vibrations  long  for- 
gotten. And  that  puffed  dress  of  blue,  flow- 
ered with  roses,  is  it  not  of  a  marquise  ? 

Oh,  how  their  songs  marvellously  harmo- 
nize !  Dost  thou  speak  Japanese,  centena- 
rian clavichord  ?  Or  thou,  graceful  Japan- 
ese maid,  dost  thou  know,  perchance,  the 
pretty  speech  of  France  ?  The  pot-bellied 
images,  dozing  on  their  pedestals  of  porce- 
lain, open  astonished  eyes  at  the  unaccus- 
tomed concert,  and  from  their  stelas  of 
bronze  the  familiar  gods  wonder  what  it  all 
means. 

And  suddenly  all  the  statuettes  change 
into  graceful  groups  of  pale  Saxe,  and  the 
bands  of  monkeys  embroidered  upon  the 
silk  screens  become  groups  of  rosy  cupids 
that  might  have  been  painted  by  Boucher 
himself.  And  the  black  hair  of  Lou-Laou- 
Ti  seems  covered  with  a  vapory  snow. 


GEORGE   AURIOL.  83 

Eh,  but  forgive  me;  it  is  truly  a  marquise 
that  is  playing  there  on  the  harpsichord;  it 
is  a  marquise,  for  she  is  singing, 

"  II  pleut,  il  pleut,  bergere — " 

Then  the  heart  of  the  old  instrument 
warms ;  its  tremulous  chords  vibrate  in  a 
supreme  harmony,  happy  at  having  trans- 
formed, by  their  sole  charm,  the  interior  of  a 
Japanese  apartment,  and  at  having  procured 
to  a  young  woman,  who  can  neither  say  papa 
nor  maman,  the  great  honor  of  singing  a 
couplet  of  poor  Fabre  d'Eglantine,  as  though 
she  had  just  returned  from  Versailles. 


* 


THE  SHADOW 
OF   THE   ORANGE-LEAVES. 

{After  Tin-Tung-Ling.} 

THE  young  girl  who  works 
all  day  in  her  solitary  chamber 
is  moved  to  tenderness  if  she 
hears  of  a  sudden  the  sound  of 
a  jade  flute. 

And  she  imagines  that  she 
hears  the  voice  of  a  young  boy. 

Through  the  paper  of  the 
windows  the  shadow  of  the 
orange -leaves  enters  and  sits 
on  her  knees; 

And  she  imagines  that  some- 
body has  torn  her  silken  dress. 


88  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE  EMPEROR. 

*I^     I 

[After 

T/wo-Foo.}  f          |  PON   a  throne  of  new   gold,  the 

Son  of    Heaven,  sparkling  with 
precious  stones,  is  sitting  among 

the  Mandarins  ;  he  seems  a  sun  environed 

by  stars. 

The   Mandarins  speak  gravely  of  grave 

things  ;  but  the  thought  of  the  Emperor  has 

flown  through  the  open  window. 


In  her  pavilion  of  porcelain,  like  a  re- 
splendent flower,  surrounded  by  leaves,  the 
Empress  is  sitting  among  her  women. 

She  thinks  that  her  beloved  tarries  too 
long  at  the  council,  and  wearily  she  waves 
her  fan. 

A  knot  of  perfumes  caresses  the  Emper- 
or's face. 


JUDITH    OAUTIER. 


89 


"My  beloved,  with  a  wave  of  her  fan, 
sends  me  the  perfume  of  her  mouth."  And 
the  Emperor,  radiant  with  precious  stones, 
walks  towards  the  pavilion  of  porcelain, 
leaving  the  astonished  Mandarins  to  stare 
at  one  another  in  silence. 


90  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


A  POET  GAZES 

ON  THE  MOON. 


[After 

ROM  my  garden  I  hear  a  woman 
singing,  but  in  spite  of  her  I  gaze 
on  the  moon. 

I  have  never  thought  of  meeting  the  wom- 
an who  sings  in  the  neighboring  garden  ;  my 
gaze  ever  follows  the  moon  in  the  heavens. 
I  believe  that  the  moon  looks  at  me  too, 
for  a  long  silver  ray  penetrates  to  my  eyes. 
The  bats  cross   it   ever   and    anon,  and 
oblige  me  suddenly  to  lower  my  lids  ;  but 
when  I  lift  them  again,  I  still  see  the  silver 
gleam  darted  upon  me. 

The  Moon  mirrors  herself  in  the  eyes  of 
poets  as  in  the  brilliant  scales  of  the  drag- 
ons, those  poets  of  the  sea. 


BY   THE    RIVER. 

[After  Li-Tat-Ft.} 

THE  young  girls  have  gone 
down  to  the  river  ;  they  sink 
among  the  tufts  of  lilies. 

They  cannot  be  seen,  but 
their  laughter  is  heard,  and 
the  wind  blows  perfumes  from 
their  dresses. 

A  young  man  on  horseback 
passes  by  the  edge  of  the  riv- 
er, close  to  the  young  girls. 

One  of  them  has  felt  her 
heart  beat,  and  her  face  has 
changed  color. 

But  the  tufts  of  lilies  close 
around  him. 


92  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE   SADNESS  OF 

THE   HUSBANDMAN. 

[After        ^W^^ 

Soo-Tong-  HE  snow  has  fallen  lightly  on  the 

^      earth,  like  a  mist  of  butterflies. 

The  husbandman  has  dropped  his  spade, 
and  it  seems  to  him  as  though  invisible 
threads  were  tightening  around  his  heart. 

He  is  sad,  for  the  earth  was  his  friend ; 
and  when  he  bent  over  her  to  intrust  her 
with  the  seeds  of  hope,  he  confided  to  her 
also  his  secret  thoughts. 

And  later,  when  the  seeds  had  germinat- 
ed, he  found  his  thoughts  in  full  bloom. 

And  now  the  earth  hides  herself  under  a 
veil  of  snow. 


[After  Li-Tat-Pt.] 

ONE  day,  from  beyond 
the  foliage  and  the  per- 
fumed flowers,  the  wind 
brought  me  the  sound  of 
a  distant  flute. 

I  carved  a  willow 
branch  and  I  answered 
with  a  song. 

Since  then,  at  night, 
when  everything  is 
asleep,  the  birds  enjoy 
a  conversation  in  their 
own  language. 


i 


94  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


?- 

7i«-/Y.]  THE  earth  has  drunk  the  snow,  and  now 
are  seen  once  more  the  blossoms  of  the 
plum-tree. 

The  leaves  of  the  willow  are  like  new 
gold,  and  the  lake  seems  a  lake  of  silver. 

Now  is  the  time  when  the  butterflies  pow- 
dered with  sulphur  rest  their  velvety  heads 
upon  the  hearts  of  the  flowers. 

The  fisherman,  from  his  motionless  boat, 
casts  forth  his  nets,  breaking  the  surface  of 
the  water. 

He  thinks  of  her  who  stays  at  home  like 
the  swallow  in  her  nest,  of  her  whom  he  will 
soon  see  again,  when  he  brings  her  food,  like 
the  swallow's  mate. 


THE  SAGES'  DANCE. 
[After  Li-Tat-Pi.} 

ON  my  flute,  tipped  with 
jade,  I  sang  a  song  to  mor- 
tals ;  but  the  mortals  did  not 
understand. 

Then  I  lifted  my  flute  to 
the  heavens,  and  I  sang  my 
song  to  the  Sages. 

The  Sages  rejoiced  togeth- 
er, they  danced  on  the  glisten- 
ing clouds. 

And  now  mortals  under- 
stand me,  when  I  sing  to  the 
accompaniment  of  my  flute 
tipped  with  jade. 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


«  THE   RED    FLOWER. 

M 

[After  Li-  "\/  V.^ 

^  ^  HILE  working  sadly  by  my  win- 
dow, I  pricked  my  finger,  and  the  white 
flower  that  I  was  embroidering  became  a  red 
flower. 

Then  I  thought  suddenly  of  him  who  has 
gone  from  me  to  fight  the  rebels;  I  imagined 
that  his  blood  was  flowing  also,  and  tears 
fell  from  my  eyes. 

But  methought  that  I  heard  the  sound  of 
his  horse's  steps,  and  I  arose  joyously.  It 
was  my  heart,  which,  beating  too  fast,  imi- 
tated the  sound  of  his  horse's  steps. 

And  I  resumed  my  work  by  the  window, 
and  my  tears  embroidered  with  pearls  the 
stuff  stretched  on  the  frame. 


THE    MOONLIGHT    IN    THE    SEA. 

[After  Li-Sn-Tchong.} 

THE  full  moon  has  just  risen  from  the 
water. 

The  sea  is  like  a  great  platter  of  silver. 

On  a  boat,  a  few  friends  are  drinking 
cups  of  wine. 

And  as  they  look  at  the  little  clouds 
that  balance  themselves  on  the  mountain 
lighted  by  the  moon  :  — 

Some  say  that  they  are 
the  wives  of  the  Emperor 
that  are  wandering  above, 
clad  in  white, 

And  others  pretend  that 
they  see  a  cloud  of  swans. 


98  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


NEAR  THE  MOUTH 
| OF  THE  RIVER. 

\After  L.i 
Ta'i-P/.~\        *H  HE  little  waves  shine  in  the  light 

of  the  moon,  that  changes  into  sil- 
ver the  limpid  green  of  the  water ; 
one  would  take  them  for  a  thousand  fishes 
swimming  towards  the  sea. 

I  am  alone  in  my  boat  and  it  glides  along 
the  shore  ;  sometimes  I  skim  the  water  with 
my  oars ;  night  and  solitude  fill  my  heart 
with  sadness. 

But  here  is  a  tuft  of  water-lilies  with  its 
flowers  that  look  like  great  pearls ;  I  caress 
them  softly  with  my  oars. 

The  leaves  rustle  and  murmur  with  ten- 
derness, and  the  flowers,  inclining  their  lit- 
tle white  heads,  look  as  though  they  were 
talking  to  me. 

The  water-lilies  wish  to  console  me;  but 
on  seeing  them,  I  had  already  forgotten  my 
sadness. 


THE    HOUSE 
IN    THE    HEART. 

{After  Tkoo-Foo.} 

THE  cruel  flames  have 
entirely  devoured  the  house 
in  which  I  was  born. 

To  distract  my  grief  I  then 
embarked  in  a  vessel  which 
was  gilded  from  stem  to  stern. 
I  took  my  carved  flute,  and 
I  sang  to  the  moon  ;  but  I  sad- 
dened the  moon,  who  veiled 
herself  with  a  cloud. 

I  turned  towards  the  mount- 
ain, but  it  inspired  in  me  no  thoughts. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  all  the  joys  of  my 
childhood  had  burned  with  my  house. 

I  yearned  for  death,  and  I  leaned  over 
the  sea.  At  that  moment  a  woman  was 
passing  in  a  boat.  I  took  her  for  the  moon 
reflecting  herself  in  the  water. 

If  she  would  only  consent,  I  would  build 
myself  a  house  in  her  heart. 


100  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE   moon    lights    the    interior 
court;  I  put  my  head  out  of 
the  window,  and  I  look  at  the 
steps  of  the  stair-way. 

I  see  the  reflection  of  the  foliage  and  the 
agitation  of  the  shadows  of  the  swing  rocked 
by  the  wind. 

I  retire  and  lie  down  on  my  trellised  bed ; 
the  coolness  of  the  night  has  seized  me ;  I 
tremble  in  my  solitary  chamber. 

And  now  I  hear  the  rain  falling  in  the 
lake  !  To-morrow  my  little  boat  will  be  wet ; 
how  shall  I  be  able  to  cull  the  water-lilies  ? 


JUDITH    GAUTIER.  IOI 


INDIFFERENCE   TO    THE 

LURES  OF  SPRING. 

Tang-Jo- 

Su.] 

HE  peach-blossoms   flut- 
fa    ter   like   pink   butter- 
flies ;  the  willow  sees 
itself  smiling  in  the  water. 

Yet  my  weariness  persists,  and  I  cannot 
write  poetry. 

The  breeze  from  the  coast,  bringing  me 
the  perfume  of  the  plum-trees,  finds  me  in- 
different. 

Ah  !  when  will  night  come  and  make  me 
forget  my  sadness  in  sleep. 


UBRART 

*  CAT m>fcwt>r 

SANTA   BARBARA 


JORIS-KARL    HUYSMANS.  105 


room  was  hung  with  pink 
satin  embossed  with  crimson 
sprays ;  the  curtains  fell  amply  from  the 
windows,  breaking  their  great  folds  of  gar- 
net velvet  upon  a  purple-flowered  carpet. 
On  the  walls  were  suspended  sanguines  by 
Boucher,  and  platters  of  brass  gemmed  and 
inlaid  with  niello  by  some  artist  of  the  Re- 
naissance. 

The  divan,  the  arm-chairs,  the  chairs,  were 
covered  with  stuffs  similar  to  the  hangings, 
with  carnation  fringes;  and  upon  the  man- 
tle, surmounted  by  a  glass  that  revealed  an 
autumnal  sky  all  empurpled  by  the  setting 
sun  and  forests  with  leaves  as  red  as  wine, 
bloomed,  in  a  vast  stand,  an  enormous  bou- 
quet of  carmine  azaleas,  of  sage,  of  digitalis, 
and  of  amaranth. 


106  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

The  all-powerful  goddess  was  buried  in 
the  cushions  of  the  divan,  rubbing  her  tawny 
tresses  against  the  cherry-red  satin,  display- 
ing her  pink  skirts,  twirling  her  little  moroc- 
co slipper  at  the  end  of  her  foot.  She  sighed 
affectedly,  arose,  stretched  her  arms,  seized 
a  large-bellied  bottle,  and  poured  out  in  a 
small  glass,  with  slender  stem  and  wrought 
in  the  shape  of  a  vise,  a  thread  of  reddish- 
brown  port. 

At  that  moment  the  sun  inundated  the 
boudoir  with  its  red  gleams,  struck  scintil- 
lating flashes  from  the  spirals  of  the  glass, 
caused  the  ambrosial  liquor  to  sparkle  like 
molten  topazes,  and,  shattering  its  rays 
against  the  brass  of  the  platters,  lighted  in 
it  fulgurating  fires.  It  was  a  rutilant  confu- 
sion of  flames  against  which  stood  out  the 
features  of  the  drinker,  like  those  of  the  vir- 
gins of  Cimabue  and  Angelico,  whose  heads 
are  encircled  with  a  nimbus  of  gold. 

That  fanfare  of  red  stunned  me ;  that 
gamut  of  furious  intensity,  of  impossible  vi- 
olence, blinded  me.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
when  I  opened  them  once  more,  the  dazzling 
tint  had  vanished,  the  sun  had  set! 


JORIS-KARL    HUYSMANS.  107 

Since  that  time  the  red  boudoir  and  the 
drinker  have  disappeared;  the  magic  blaze 
is  extinguished. 

In  summer,  however,  when  the  nostalgia 


of  red  weighs  more  heavily  upon 
me,  I  raise  my  head  to  the  sun,  and 
there,  under  its  hot  stings,  impassi- 
ble, with  eyes  obstinately  closed,  I  see  un 
der  the  veil  of  my  lids  a  red  vapor ;  I  recall 
my  thoughts,  and  I  see  once  more,  for  a  min- 
ute, for  a  second,  the  disquieting  fascination, 
the  unforgotten  enchantment. 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  Ill 


THE   CAPTIVE. 

DO  not  know  for  what  superb  and 
inexpiable  sin  the  cold  Princess  is 
held  captive  in  the  hall  with  the 
walls  of  brass.  Motionless,  and 
seemingly  conscious  of  the  gaze  of 
invisible  crowds,  sitting  upon  a  throne  be- 
tween two  golden  chimeras,  she  languidly 
contemplates  her  insolent  beauty  in  the  mir- 
ror of  the  walls. 

But  lo !  she  arises ;  and  her  eyes,  yet  ar- 
dent with  dreams  that  her  vigils  have  not 
driven  away,  she  walks  towards  the  metallic 
walls.  In  their  transparency  she  sees,  as 
in  a  luminous  haze  of  dawn,  a  vague  form, 
the  voluptuous  form  of  a  woman  with  hair 
dishevelled.  Shuddering  with  supernatural 
love,  murmuring  words  of  welcome,  she  runs 
with  open  arms  towards  the  royal  vision. 


112  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

But  she  has  recognized  her  own  splendor, 
and  her  nostrils  breathe  in  the  hall  the  per- 
fume of  her  own  flesh.  Then,  sad  and  wea- 
ry, unclasping  her  robes  of  purple,  she  re- 
turns to  sit  and  weep  between  the  ironical 
chimeras.  "  I,"  says  she,  "  ever  I."  Around 
her  the  hall  uplifts  its  implacable  polished 
walls.  No  friendly  flowers,  no  ancient  ar- 
mor. Everywhere  reflected  by  the  brass, 
the  captive  alone  adorns  her  prison. 

For  many  hours  has  she  wearied  and  suf- 
fered, the  cold  Princess  guarded  by  her  im- 
age. And  now  she  hates  herself,  now  would 
she  fain  cover  with  veils  the  great  mirrors 
that  make  of  herself  her  own  eternal  jailer. 
Yet  a  window  is  open.  If  from  that  window 
she  could  see  the  vintagers  moving  among 
the  vines,  or  the  harvest-girls  plunging  their 
arms  in  the  sea  of  corn,  or  only — and  that 
alone  would  be  divine  —  the  grave  ocean 
ploughing  black  furrows  in  the  crepuscular 
fields,  how  she  would  lean  out  distractedly 
from  her  window,  and  how  she  would  blow 
long  and  friendly  kisses  towards  the  coun- 
try in  travail ! 

Alas !  the  road  that  passes  at  the  foot  of 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL. 


the  tower  is  forever  deserted.  It  has  no 
beginning  and  no  end,  and  the  black  trees 
that  border  it  make  the  solemn  noise  of  wa- 
ters flowing  towards  the  ocean.  In  her  sor- 
row the  Princess  tears  off  her  vesture  ;  her 
necklaces,  plucked  asunder, 
fall,  gem  after  gem,  with  a 
mocking  noise ;  and  under 
the  shreds  of  her  torn  purple 
she  appears  entire  in  the  mir- 
rors that  exalt  the  useless 
glory  of  her  rich  nubility. 

At  last,  however,  the  door 
is  about  to  open.  If  the  hour 
of  forgiveness  were  to  sound  ! 
If  the  fair  conqueror,  armor- 
ed in  light,  were  to  enter  !  If 
some  lover's  voice  were  to 
cry :  "  I  come  to  deliver  thee 
from  thyself !" 

No,  it  is  a  slave  who  offers 
rare  fruits  and  precious  wines 
in  cups  of   emerald.      And  the   slave   also 
wears  robes  of  purple;  she  also  allows  the 
heavy  gold  of  her  hair  to  flow  on  the  floor, 
and  even  more  than  a  sister  she  resembles 


114  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

the  Princess  in  body  and  visage.  Moreover, 
she  is  good  and  gentle,  and  speaks  a  gut- 
tural language  of  the  Orient,  in  which  friend- 
ly words  sound  like  the  cooing  of  doves. 

But  in  the  beauty  of  the  envoy  the  cap- 
tive sees  only  her  own  beauty,  and  her  words 
of  consolation  remind  her  only  of  her  own 
voice.  And  that  is  why  the  sorrowful  Prin- 
cess drives  away  the  beautiful  loving  slave, 
more  cruel  even  than  the  mirrors. 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  115 


THE  TOYSHOP. 


I  DO  not  remember  at  present  either  the 
time,  or  the  place,  or  whether  it  was  in  a 
dream.  Men  and  women  were  walking  to 
and  fro  on  a  long  promenade,  and  I  was 
walking  to  and  fro  with  the  crowd,  a  rich 
crowd,  whence  arose  feminine  perfumes. 
And  notwithstanding  the  soft  splendor  of 
the  furs  and  velvets  that  brushed  against 
me,  notwithstanding  the  red  smiles  of  lips 
half  seen  under  delicate  veils,  I  was  seized 
with  a  vague  weariness  thus  to  see  on  my 
right  and  on  my  left  the  slow  procession  of 
monotonous  promenaders. 

Now,  on  a  bench,  a  man  was  gazing  upon 
the  crowd  with  strange  eyes,  and  as  I  ap- 
proached him  I  heard  him  sob.  I  asked 
him  why  he  thus  lamented;  and,  uplifting 
his  great  feverish  eyes,  he  who  wept  said  ; 


Il6  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  I  am  sad,  you  see,  because  for  many  days 
I  have  been  shut  up  in  this  toyshop.  For 
many  days  and  many  years  I  have  seen 
none  but  puppets,  and  I  am  weary  of  being 
alone  alive.  They  are  of  wood,  but  so  mar- 
vellously fashioned  that  they  move  and  speak 
like  me.  And  yet  I  know  they  can 
only  make  forever  the  same  movements 
and  say  forever  the  same  words. 

"These  beautiful  dolls,  dressed  in  vel- 
vets and  furs,  who  trail  in  the  air  a  love- 
inspiring  odor  of  iris,  they  are  even  bet- 
ter articulated.  Their  springs  are  much 
more  delicate  than  the  others,  and  when 
you  know  how  to  make  them  work  you 
have  the  illusion  of  life." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then, 
with  the  solemn  voice  of  those  who  re- 
member : 

"  Of  yore  I  had  chosen  one,  deliciously 
frail,  and  often  in  the  evenings  I  held  he/ 
in  my  arms.  I  had  told  her  so  many  sweet 
things,  that  I  finally  believed  she  under- 
stood them ;  and  I  had  tried  so  often  to 
warm  her  with  kisses  that  I  thought  she 
was  alive.  But  I  have  since  perceived  that 


EPHRAIM    MIK.HAEL.  117 

she  too,  like  the  others,  was  a  doll  stuffed 
with  bran. 

"Long  have  I  hoped  that  some  puppet 
might  make  a  new  movement,  say  a  word 
that  the  others  had  not  said.  Now  I  am 
tired  of  breathing  my  dreams  into  them.  I 
am  weary,  and  I  wish  to  leave  this  toyshop 
where  they  have  shut  me  up.  I  implore 
you,  if  you  can,  lead  me  outside — outside, 
where  there  are  living  beings." 


Il8  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


UPON  the  jasper  of  the  lake,  a  junk  of 
ebony  with  black  sails,  moving  without  oars, 
opens  a  long  wake  of  snow.  It  is  towards 
the  setting  sun  that  it  slowly  goes. —  Oh! 
so  slowly  that  one  hardly  hears  the  rustling 
of  its  sad  wings.  And  yet,  in  the  calm  lan- 
guor of  evening,  I  distinguish  at  present  an 
immaterial  sound,  that  is  the  cry  exhaled 
by  the  Soul  of  the  Junk. 

The  Soul  of  the  Junk  sighs,  and  in  that 
strange  sigh  "my  spirit  recognizes — as  the 
senses  separate  two  mingled  odors  —  lassi- 
tude and  dismay.  For  the  Junk  is  weary 
of  eternally  seeing  behind  it  that  wake  of 
the  color  of  shrouds.  It  would  fain  run 
from  it,  to  rest  yonder  near  the  magic  pal- 
aces of  red  copper  built  by  the  setting  sun ; 
or  else  to  stop  silently  so  that  the  lake 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  1 19 

might  spread  around  it  like  a  plain  of  green 
marble. 

But  an  imperious  wind  swells,  without 
cease,  its  sails ;  and  with  its  heavy  prow  the 
Junk  itself  furrows  the  wake  that  wearies 
and  dismays  it. 

Then  a  voice,  so  mysterious  and  so  per- 
sonal that  I  cannot  tell  whether  it  comes 
from  the  Junk  or  from  my  soul,  murmurs  in 
the  violet  air  of  the  evening :  "  Ah !  to  see 
behind  me  no  longer,  on  the  lake  of  Eter- 
nity, the  implacable  Wake  of  Time  !" 


120  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


KINGSHIP. 


HEN  in  his  hand  they  had  placed 
the  sword,  and  on  his  head  the  crown 
with  ten  flowers  of  gold,  when  the  herald, 
clad  in  red  tabards,  had  proclaimed  his 
name  to  the  people,  the  Prince  began  to 
sorrow.  Beneath  the  pride  of  his  new  king- 
ship lurked  the  thought  that  innumerable 
generations  of  kings  had  long  before  him 
received  the  sword  and  the  crown.  While 
yet  a  child  he  had  dreamed  of  unknown 
joys,  of  inviolate  glories,  and  now  they  had 
thrown  upon  his  shoulders  the  common 
mantle  of  Sovereigns. 

He  reigned  over  the  nations.  Armies 
barded  with  iron  won  battles  for  him,  and 
he  knew  that  the  memory  of  his  glory  would 
blaze  through  the  future  like  the  light  of 
a  great  fire.  Yet  he  grieved  because  his 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAKL.  121 

thoughts  were  like  the  thoughts  of  other 
men,  and  they  only  abided  in  his  soul  like 
the  strange  doves  that  haunt  all  the  dove- 
cots. And  as  he  had  heard  monks  proclaim 
the  vanity  of  joys,  he  thought  unto  himself : 
"  Sorrow  alone  is  infinite.  I  will  have  a 
sorrow  greater  than  the  sorrows  of  men,  a 
sorrow  that  no  one  has  known." 

Then  he  commanded  his  men-at-arms  to 
blow  their  trumpets  through  the  town;  and 
on  the  public  square  was  built  a  scaffold, 
hung  with  black  velvet.     When  the 
people  were  .assembled,  the   execu- 
tioner's attendants,  with   bloody  tu- 
nics, led  upon  the  scaffold  the  King's 
little  sweetheart,  his  friend,  his  best 
beloved.     She  was  weeping  and  call- 
ing upon  her  lord,  and  she  was   so 
fair  in  her  divine   despair  that   she 
felt  herself  for  an  instant  adored  by 
thousands  of  men.    But  the  King  ap- 
peared upon  the  public  square  and 
ascended  the  steps  of  the  scaffold 
in  his  sky-blue  mantle,  embroidered 
with   a   flight    of   heraldic   eagles    in   gold. 
Implacable  and  silent,  he   forced  the  dear 


122  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

victim  to  kneel  upon  the  velvet,  and  seizing 
in  his  royal  hands  the  axe  of  punishment, 
he  cut  off  the  beloved  head  at  one  blow. 

For  days  and  nights  in  the  oratory  of  the 
palace,  with  his  forehead  prone  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar,  he  implored  the  Queen  of  An- 
gels :  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Afflicted,  allow  that 
my  sorrow  may  be  made  visible  as  the  heart, 
pierced  with  the  seven  mystic  glaves,  is  vis- 
ible in  your  images.  And  therein  will  be 
the  sign  of  expiation."  Now  the  Virgin 
hearkened  unto  him. 

He  wandered  over  the  countries  of  the 
earth,  and  everywhere,  as  he  passed,  the  trees 
took  on  the  tints  of  the  trees  of  autumn. 
The  church -bells  began  to  toll  of  them- 
selves, and  the  walls  of  the  cities  veiled 
themselves  in  mortuary  draperies.  And  it 
was  not  all  a  vain  pageantry  of  funerals  ; 
but  with  every  sound  of  the  bells,  with  every 
mournful  color,  corresponded  in  the  soul  of 
the  King  a  thought  of  sadness.  His  sor- 
row had  been  made  visible  according  to  his 
prayer,  and  now,  having  become  material,  it 
filled  the  universe. 

But  he  was  proud  as  a  god  of  suffering 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAKL.  123 

what  no  one  had  suffered  before,  and  he 
walked  in  the  glory  of  his  grief,  mournful 
and  splendid  as  a  black  sun. 

And  as  he  went  thus,  causing  night  and 
winter  wherever  he  passed,  he  reached  a 
great  plain  bordered  by  rigid  trees.  There 
twelve  elders  were  sitting  in  a  circle,  motion- 
less, upon  their  seats  of  stone,  and  mute  as 
the  statues  that  guard  the  tombs.  The  King 
advanced  towards  them  and  cried,  in  haugh- 
ty tones:  "Behold  me,  elders,  that  before 
dying,  ye  may  see  him  that  has  known  a 
new  sorrow." 

But  the  elders  arose  together  with  loud 
cries,  and  one  of  them  answered  the  King : 
"  Man,  do  not  boast  before  us  of  feeling 
what  no  one  has  felt,  for  we  are  the  Months 
of  the  Year,  and  the  Master  has  established 
us  to  chasten  those  who  have  disclaimed  the 
happiness  of  the  crowds.  Since  thou  hast 
sinned  from  pride,  thou  shall  not  be  lib- 
erated from  life ;  but,  tortured  by  the  in- 
effable shame  of  ignoring  the  Unknown, 
thou  shalt  remain  to  the  end  of  time  our 
prisoner — the  prisoner  of  the  Months  of 
the  Year.'" 


124  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Then,  as  in  the  distant  heavens  rang  the 
trump  of  archangels,  the  King  felt  his  crown 
fall  and  his  will  expire,  and  he  entered  the 
circle  of  the  twelve  eternal  Jailers. 


EPHRA1M    MIKHAEL.  125 


MIRACLES. 

IT  is  in  a  rich  and  ancient  city,  on  the 
shores  of  a  cerulean  ocean,  in  a  strange 
city  where,  among  obelisks  and  pylons,  ma- 
chines of  war  press  and  thunder.  From  a 
high  terrace  of  marble,  the  poet  Azahel  con- 
templates the  swarming  of  ambitious  sails 
in  the  harbor.  In  the  peaceful  twilight,  un- 
der the  sky  vibrant  with  the  flight  of  swal- 
lows, he  meditates  upon  the  uselessness  of 
the  hours. 

For  he  knows  that  in  that  city,  where  live 
wise  men  and  sages  and  doctors  of  the  law, 
he  alone  has  recognized  the  infirmity  of 
Reason,  and  he  thinks  of  those  who  bear 
through  the  ages  their  ridiculous  common- 
sense  like  a  precious  and  heavy  reliquary; 
and  because  he  has  disclaimed  it,  he  glori- 
fies himself  in  his  heart. 


126  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

And  lo !  among  the  crowd  by  the  harbor, 
appears  a  stranger  clad  in  a  woollen  man- 
tle of  noble  folds  and  of  ancient  pattern. 
His  eyes,  like  antique  gems,  seem  to  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  primordial  visions,  and 
under  his  feet  the  stones  quake  as  with 
dread. 

When  the  poet  Azahel  had  descended 
among  the  crowd,  the  stranger  lifted  his 
arms  to  heaven ;  and  now  he  cries  out,  in 
tones  that  resound  like  the  trumpets  of  the 
temples  :  "  Men,  I  am  a  prophet  of  God.  I 
have  come  to  proclaim  the  Word,  and  those 
that  will  follow  me  I  will  lead,  walking  on 
the  waves  of  the  sea,  towards  the  veritable 
Land  of  Promise."  Then  from  the  crowd 
arises  a  murmur  of  disappointment.  Young 
men  glance  from  the  prophet  to  the  sky 
where  the  vesper  mist  is  thickening,  and  they 
pass  on  with  negligent  steps.  The  wise  men 
watch  in  silence;  and  the  merchants,  having 
cast  a  last  look  at  their  good  ships  anchored 
in  the  peaceful  harbor,  shrug  their  shoulders 
and  depart.  A  doctor  of  the  law,  however, 
has  said  with  a  smile  :  "  Master,  if  thou  art 
the  envoy  of  God,  show  us  some  sign.  Veri- 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  127 

ly,  couldst  thou  not,  after  the  rite  of  the 
prophets,  heal  the  dumb  and  blind  !" 

Near  the  harbor  were  two  men — the  one 
blind,  the  other  dumb.  The  prophet  laid 
his  hands  upon  their  foreheads,  and  the 
blind  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  the  dumb 
man  spake  in  a  loud  voice.  The  prophet 
asked  :  "  Is  the  sign  sufficient,  and  do  you 
wish  to  follow  me  ?"  But  the  crowd  re- 
mains motionless,  the  blind  man  shakes  his 
head,  and  the  dumb  man  cries  out  with  his 
newly-found  voice  :  "I  do  not  believe  thee  !" 

The  stranger  therefore  extends  his  con- 
fident hand  towards  the  horizon  which  is 
now  full  of  night,  and  repeats  the  sacred 
words  of  Genesis :  "  Let  there  be  light !"  and 
lo !  in  the  Orient  bursts  a  summer  dawn. 

Disconcerted,  the  doctors  of  the  law  con- 
sult with  the  wise  men.  But  no  one  ad- 
vances towards  the  sea. 

Then,  with  the  sadness  of  a  vanquished 
angel,  the  great  stranger  goes  and  sits  dream- 
ily on  the  steps  of  an  ancient  temple,  before 
the  doors  that  have  been  closed  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  The  crowd  scatters  little 
by  little,  the  wise  men  and  the  doctors  aban- 


128  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

don  the  harbor,  and  as  they  return  home 
they  feel  less  troubled,  because  the  natural 
night  has  returned.  Azahel  alone  has  re- 
mained near  the  closed  temple,  and  he  gazes 
upon  the  man  come  from  yonder.  If  he 
were  truly  the  Envoy !  Oh,  to  recognize 
him,  to  bow  before  him,  to  follow  him  tow- 
ards the  chosen  land  ! — But  the  spirit  of 
Azahel  is  obscured  by  earthly  ideas,  and  he 
can  only  think  that  the  man  is  very  fair  be- 
cause of  his  high  stature  and  of  his  godly 
looks. 

Suddenly  the  elder  arises  and  walks  tow- 
ards the  poet  :  "  Azahel,  thou  hast  loved  a 
virgin  who  is  dead.  I  will  give  her  back  to 
thee."  Immediately,  wrapped  in  funereal 
robes  and  coming  forth  blushing  from  death 
as  from  the  coolness  of  a  morning  sea,  a 
young  woman  appears.  Smiling  and  for- 
getful of  the  divine  secrets  of  the  tomb,  she 
opens  her  arms  to  her  lover. 

But  he  flies  in  terror  through  the  silent 
streets;  among  the  pylons  and  the  obelisks 
and  the  images  of  the  forgotten  gods  he 
flies,  blinded  by  the  miracle  like  a  night- 
bird  frightened  by  torches.  And  it  is  only 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  129 

when  he  finds  himself  once  more  on  the 
peaceful  terrace  of  marble  that  he  dares  di- 
rect his  gaze  towards  the  harbor  haunted 
by  prodigies. 

At  that  moment  a  mysterious  light  shines 
towards  the  Orient.  Upon  the  pacified 
ocean  the  great  biblical  elder  passes  calm- 
ly, and  the  reflection  of  stars  in  the  water 
borders  his  way  with  a  double  row  of  dia- 
monds. Now  Azahel  would  fain  arise  and 
walk  forth  also  on  the  miraculous  waves. 
But  he  feels  himself  so  heavy  with  reason 
that  he  cannot  even  lift  his  shameful  hands 
towards  Envoy  who  returns. 
9 


130  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE  EVOCATOR. 

As  the  army  of  the  Conqueror  issued  from 
the  forest,  the  barbaric  archers  riding  in  the 
van  cried  out  that  they  saw  in  the  distance 
an  immense  and  bizarre  city.  Yonder,  in 
the  ruddy  haze  of  the  Occident,  arose  high 
towers  of  marble,  and  the  blood  of  the  dy- 
ing day  flowed  as  in  sacred  patens  upon  ter- 
races paved  with  gold. 

But  when  the  army  had  come  nearer  they 
saw  that  the  city — since  centuries,  doubtless 
— was  silent  and  deserted.  Then  the  sol- 
diers, lowering  their  pikes,  entered  peacea- 
bly, and  they  marched  long,  by  grass-grown 
walls  and  closed  doors,  through  the  solemn 
streets.  At  last,  upon  a  square,  before  a 
colossal  temple,  an  old  man  came  forth  to 
meet  them.  "  Strangers,"  said  he,  "  you 
have  come  to  an  austere  spot.  If  you  are 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  131 

impure  and  covetous,  go  hence  towards  the 
proud  cities  of  Asia.  You  will  find  here  no 
treasures  to  rifle  nor  virgins  to  violate.  Go 
hence,  for  this  is  the  city  of  the  gods.  Yet 
if  you  still  preserve,  O  warriors  from 
happy  lands,  some  care  for  the  distant 
heaven,  come  towards  the  lamps  that  no 
earthly  wind  can  extinguish,  in  the  sanct- 
uary, where,  like  an  august  lion  made 
captive,  the  Divinity  offers  itself  to  the 
gaze  of  men." 

The  soldiers   murmured,  weary 
and   surprised ;   yet,  on    account 
of  the  long  march  accomplished, 
they  resolved  to  pass  the  night 
by  the  fires  lighted  in  the  super- 
natural city.     But  they  could  not 
sleep,  because  the  thought  of  the  neighboring 
god  troubled  them. 

And  thus,  little  by  little,  the  temple  was 
filled  with  an  insolent  crowd  awaiting  the 
divine  vision.  Within  stood  men  of  all 
conditions :  imperious  soldiers,  timid  army 
varlets,  ironical  scribes,  a  sage  from  the 
shores  of  the  Ganges,  emaciated  by  fear 
ful  fasts,  clad  by  everlasting  alms,  whom 


IJ2  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

out  of  vanity   the    Conqueror  dragged   in 
his  train. 

When  the  day  appeared,  all  these  men 
came  out  from  the  temple,  trembling  with 
meditations ;  and  on  the  square  they  ques- 
tioned one  another  anxiously.  Some  had 
seen  strange  figures,  grimacing  and  cruel, 
half  veiled  in  bloody  mists ;  others  an- 
nounced grotesque  gods,  with  enormous  bel- 
lies, with  stupid  and  joyous  faces.  A  few 
also  spoke  of  a  smiling  god  who  pointed  with 
his  hand  to  the  world,  and  then  moved  his 
arms,  as  though  to  excuse  himself. 

But  the  silent  sage  re-entered  the  temple 
and  questioned  the  old  man:  "Why,  O  re- 
vealer  of  gods,  hast  thou  not  granted  to  all 
these  men  the  same  vision  ?  I  have  watched 
throughout  the  night  with  them,  and  amid  a 
music  of  paradise,  I  saw  an  ineffable  dawn 
of  splendor  and  charity  burst  forth  and 
spread  over  the  world.  Why,  then,  hast  thou 
lied  to  them,  why  have  not  my  brethren  of 
the  army  known  the  dream  of  God  ?" 

"  Stranger,  you  have  all  seen  the  God. 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  the  heavens,  dream- 
ed of  and  perhaps  unreal,  are  but  a  vast 


EPHRAIM     MIKHAEL.  133 

mirror  where  every  one  sees  himself  invested 
with  immortality  ?  They  have  seen  them- 
selves in  the  heavens  and  they  blaspheme. 
Listen  to  what  they  say." 

Then,  by  a  window,  the  sage  looked  out. 
Irritated  by  the  ridiculous  and  blood-guilty 
gods,  the  mob  was  preparing  torches  with 
which  to  fire  the  temple,  and  was  leaping 
forward  with  laughter  and  insults.  And 
now  to  the  hearing  of  the  sage  the  proffered 
syllables  yielded  a  new  meaning;  and  in  a 
marvellous  language  of  primitive  times,  be- 
come suddenly  intelligible,  he  heard  the 
blasphemous  confess  their  sins  and  their 
crimes,  and  proclaim  before  the  holy  doors 
their  own  inanity. 


134  PASTELS    IN   PROSE. 


SOLITUDE. 


order  to  fulfil   the  behest  of 

[ANYWHERE  fe^rfj^^r   some  distant  king,  the  servants 
OUT  OF  THE  fe       exposed  the  child  in  a  place  of 

rocks  and  forests.  The  waif  was  laid  upon 
a  stone  among  monstrous  grasses.  Cruel 
flowers  around  him  opened  their  red  and 
hostile  chalices  like  the  maws  of  savage 
beasts.  But  upon  that  very  night  began  the 
year  of  Jubilee,  and  the  priests,  having  as- 
sembled in  the  forest,  discovered  the  child. 
One  of  the  hierophants,  leaning  over  the 
stone,  prophesied.  "This  child,"  said  he, 
"  is  of  noble  origin.  He  shall  be  delivered 
from  all  evil  approach."  The  priests  chant- 
ed the  accustomed  hymns,  and  they  went 
together  to  confide  the  child  to  some  shep- 
herds. Men  blowing  into  conchs  preceded 
the  train ;  they  wore  vestments  of  mourn- 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  135 

ing,  and  turning  towards  the  plains,  they 
made  the  air  resound  with  tumultuous,  de- 
spairing calls.  But  from  the  depths  of  the 
thickets  the  trumpeters,  in  white  robes,  an- 
swered with  rich  fanfares,  and  their  straight 
slender  trumpets  arose  in  the  dawn  like  great 
lilies  of  gold. 

In  the  shepherds'  village  the  child  was 
named  Stellus.  He  grew  up  wild  and  dis- 
dainful, yet  within  him  lurked  a  desultory 
tenderness.  He  opened  his  arms  to  the 
children,  he  ran  towards  the  mothers  and 
embraced  them  like  a  son.  But  of  a  sud- 
den he  would  stop,  as  though  wounded  by 
some  unknown  sorrow ;  he  would  bow  his 
head  and  fly  to  shadowy  retreats  by  the 
long,  deserted  roads.  The  other  children 
cast  stones  at  him,  beat  him  with  branches. 
The  old  men  said,  "  They  are  right ;  thou 
shouldst  play  with  thy  brothers."  Docile, 
he  would  then  try  to  follow  those  of  his  own 
age  when  they  roamed  through  the  gardens, 
stealing  fruits  or  plundering  hives ;  and  in 
the  sunny  fields  he  would  suddenly  feel  like 
weeping  and  running  to  some  hiding-place, 
he  knew  not  why. 


136  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Often  did  he  escape  from  the  roads,  away 
from  the  villages,  into  the  forest  where  of 
yore  they  had  found  him.  A  great  peace 
would  then  descend  upon  him :  the  friend- 
ly branches  caressed  him  with  their  sweet 
freshness ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  healing 
hands  were  laid  upon  his  brow.  Silently 
he  would  sit  in  a  sunny  glade  by  the  edge 
of  a  lake  so  deeply  impregnated  with  an- 
cient light  that  it  seemed  to  hold  between 
its  shores  marvellous  waters  of  cinnabar 
and  gold.  Stellus  would  remain  there,  with- 
out dreams,  without  desires,  content  with 
listening  to  the  wind.  At  first  he  could 
only  hear  a  monotonous  and  confused  noise, 
spreading  over  the  whole  country.  But 
soon  he  learned  to  distinguish  the  rustling 
of  each  tree,  of  each  branch.  Then  he  dis- 
cerned wondrous  and  supernatural  sounds, 
like  songs  of  fairy  spinners,  like  sighs  of  ce- 
lestial flutes.  And  those  rumors  of  the  wind 
exerted  a  miraculous  power  over  him.  As 
he  listened,  Stellus  felt  new  thoughts  surg- 
ing within  him.  He  understood,  he  knew; 
he  saw  that  the  forest  was  alive;  he  felt 
the  ineffable  soul  of  the  trees,  the  grasses, 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  137 

and  the  waters ;  and  sounds  fallen  from 
the  stars  taught  him  divine  things.  Yet  he 
felt  no  wonder.  That  revelation  seemed 
to  him  but  an  awakened  memory,  and  ev- 
ery thought  that  entered  his  brain  was  like 
a  returning  exile.  He  listened  peacefully, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  quite  simple  that  those 
teachings  should  thus  be  brought  to  him 
from  heaven  by  the  winds,  like  flowers  blown 
from  the  gardens  of  the  night. 

But  when,  at  last,  the  breezes  were  silent, 
an  immense  sadness  arose  in  the  soul  of  the 
child.  After  the  revealing  words  which  the 
wind  had  blown  him,  he  felt  himself  still 
more  estranged  from  men.  An  imperious 
desire  sometimes  came  over  him  to  repeat 
to  others  what  he  had  learned  from  the 
forest.  But  he  felt  that  he  would  speak 
in  vain,  and  he  remained  painfully  silent. 
When  he  returned  among  his  companions 
he  was  seized  with  a  strange  uneasiness. 
Every  day  he  tarried  longer  in  the  forest ; 
during  a  whole  summer  he  lived  among  the 
trees.  He  remained  there,  wild  and  loving, 
regretting  his  companions,  yet  not  daring  to 
return  among  them. 


138  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Mists  began  to  tarnish  the  crepuscules  ; 
a  long  thrill  of  sadness  agitated  the  branch- 
es; the  trees  leaned  backward,  startled  and 
trembling,  as  though  recoiling  with  terror 
before  the  approaching  winter ;  the  flocks, 
left  to  browse  in  the  spare  grass,  grew  lean 
and  bleated  lamentably. 

A  man  came  from  the  village  to  seek  news 
of  the  tarrying  shepherd.  Stellus  confided 
to  him  his  sorrow ;  he  besought  him  to  leave 
him  in  the  forest.  The  man  listened  with 
the  look  of  one  who  understands.  "  I  see 
what  thou  yearnest  after,"  he  said ;  "  the 
priests  have  said  that  thou  wert  of  noble 
origin.  That  means,  no  doubt,  that  thou 
wert  not  made  to  be  a  shepherd.  Go  forth 
into  the  world  in  quest  of  glorious  advent- 
ures. Be  a  warrior." 

Stellus  believed  in  the  man.  "  Yes,"  he 
thought,  "  perhaps  I  might  be  happy  among 
the  warriors."  Having  climbed  upon  a  rock, 
he  saw  afar  in  the  night  the  restless  fires  of 
a  camp.  He  left  his  flocks  and  went  forth 
through  rough  paths  towards  the  field  of 
battle.  The  calls  of  the  sentinels  upon 
the  mountains  guided  his  steps ;  trumpets 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  139 

sounded  yonder,  as  though  to  give  him  wel- 
come. 

Beneath  a  casque  surmounted  by  a  gold- 
en eagle,  under  his  armor  bristling  with 
spikes,  Stellus  fought  with  the  battle-axe 
and  the  sword.  He  served  a  conquering 
king  whose  army  triumphantly  advanced, 
odious  to  the  nations.  Such  hatred  mut- 
tered behind  the  invaders  that  they  de- 
spatched their  own  wounded  to  save  them 
from  the  expiatory  tortures  which  the  en- 
emy would  doubtless  have  inflicted  upon 
them.  And  that  no  one  might  be  capt- 
ured alive,  the  soldiers,  when  in  battle, 
fastened  themselves  to  one  another  with 
chains. 

But  a  mysterious  force  impelled  Stellus 
to  fight  alone.  In  vain  did  he  wish  to  come 
nearer  to  his  brethren  at-arms ;  an  invisible 
power  drove  him  away.  During  the  nights 
of  alarm  he  galloped  alone  towards  the 
posts  of  peril.  He  was  the  solitary  torch- 
bearer  who  explored  the  barbaric  woods  ; 
he  was  the  sole  defender  of  the  rear-guards, 
he  who  was  abandoned,  during  the  flight  of 
kings  and  captains,  as  a  martial  offering  to 


140  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

the  gods  of  war.  Yet  how  he  yearned  to 
mingle  with  his  companions,  to  drain  with 
them,  in  the  stolen  cups,  the  wine  of  con- 
quest !  How  he  envied  those  who,  on  the 
eve  of  massacres,  slept  together  like  brothers 
under  the  flapping  canvas  of  the  tents  !  But 
he  never  had  a  companion. 

He  had  thought,  in  the  days  of  the  first 
battles :  "  Doubtless,  being  of  noble  origin, 
I  cannot  be  happy  among  that  rabble  of 
soldiers.  I  shall  only  be  happy  when  I 
walk  among  the  chiefs."  He  accomplished 
such  exploits  that  the  kings  greeted  him 
as  their  equal.  He  received  the  banner 
and  the  lance  of  gold,  and  his  place  was 
among  the  princes  of  the  army.  But  in 
the  eager  procession  of  young  sovereigns, 
the  old  sorrow  surprised  him  anew ;  in  the 
squares  of  the  conquered  capitals  which 
he  received  as  his  appanage,  he  felt  him- 
self, as  in  the  shepherds'  village,  a  passing 
stranger. 

As  he  was  sorrowing,  an  old  captain  who 
admired  him  said  :  "  I  know  what  thou  de- 
sirest.  What  thou  missest,  Stellus,  is  love. 
Go  forth  into  the  world  and  seek  for  some 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  141 

fair  princess.  Be  a  lover."  Stellus  be- 
lieved in  the  captain.  He  strewed  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle  with  thick  sprays  of 
lilac;  he  wound  full -leaved  vine  branches 
around  his  lance,  and  he  departed  in  quest 
of  love.  Birds  from  fairy-land,  dazzling  the 
air  with  their  burnished  wings,  flew  in  front 
of  the  horseman.  Over  the  rivers  and  the 
fields  floated  nuptial  perfumes. 

In  a  land  of  sunlight  and  of  gushing  wa- 
ters Stellus  found  the  fair  princess.  She 
was  standing  by  a  fountain,  drawing  water 
with  a  silver  jug.  Her  pale  and  supple 
arms  were  upon  the  margin.  She  began  to 
laugh,  the  young  girl,  because  some  doves 
that  had  suddenly  alighted  before  her  splash- 
ed her  face  with  drops  of  liquid  light  when 
they  folded  their  wings.  When  Stellus 
came  near  she  took  to  flight.  She  ran  over 
the  plain,  and  laughed  as  she  ran.  Now 
and  then  she  stopped,  hastily  plucked  red 
roses  and  white  roses,  and  threw  them  iron- 
ically to  the  horseman.  Her  tawny  hair 
had  become  undone,  and  flowed  broadly 
upon  her  shoulders  like  a  huntress's  mantle 
cut  out  of  the  skin  of  a  young  tigress. 


142  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

At  last  Stellus  overtook  her,  wound  his 
arms  around  her,  lifted  her  on  his  horse. 
She  was  laughing  still.  "Drop  the  reins," 
she  said.  Softly,  with  caressing  words,  she 
guided  the  tamed  charger.  By  an  alley 
sanded  with  blue  powder  she  led  Stellus 
to  her  palace,  and  that  night  the  timbrels 
and  the  sistrums  announced  princely  be- 
trothals. 

The  nuptial  garlands  had  not  yet  faded 
on  the  balconies  of  the  palace  before  Stellus 
came  and  sat  dolorously  in  the  gardens. 
He  lifted  his  plaintive  hands  to  heaven  and 
he  murmured :  "  Who  will  come  to  assist 
me  ?  Who  will  give  me  counsel  ?"  Then 
he  saw  under  a  tree  a  venerable  man  of 
sacerdotal  aspect,  who  was  listening  to  him. 
"  Father,"  said  Stellus,  "  if  thou  be  the  sav- 
ior sent  to  me,  if  thou  knowest  the  hidden 
things,  tell  me  why  I  am  forever  solitary. 
Tell  me  why,  as  a  child,  I  could  not  play 
with  children  ;  why  I  could  not  reveal  to 
young  men  the  words  of  the  wind,  nor  laugh 
with  soldiers,  nor  sleep  blissfully  by  the  side 
of  my  bride  ?" 

In  a  dreamy  voice,  the  aged  man  answer- 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  143 

ed  :  "  Stellus,  Stellus,  because  the  enchant- 
ment of  kisses  has  not  overcome  thee,  be- 
cause thy  heart,  unalterably  noble,  can  find 
no  solace  in  ordinary  joys,  I  will  speak. 
Thou  sufferest,  Stellus,  because  thou  art  un- 
like other  men,  because  thou  canst  know 
neither  their  sorrows  nor  their  hopes.  But 
learn  now:  all  men  are  like  thee — solitary 
monsters.  Thou  rememberest,  Stellus,  when 
thou  wert  a  little  child  among  the  shep- 
herds, thou  couldst  not  tell  the  bucks  from 
the  rams,  nor  the  lambs  from  the  kids  ;  and 
when  thou  heardst  afar  a  sound  of  bleating, 
thou  didst  say :  '  The  beasts  yonder  are 
crying.'  As  the  buck  differs  from  the  ram, 
so  does  one  man  differ  from  another  man ; 
and  over  the  plains  of  the  earth  there  is  but 
a  disorderly  flock  of  mutually  unknown  and 
hostile  beings.  Stellus,  the  far-seeing  eyes 
of  the  Initiated  perceive  mysterious  differ- 
ences where  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar  can  only 
see  evident  similitudes.  But  mankind  ig- 
nores the  horrible,  the  divine  truth.  They 
think  themselves  alike  one  to  the  other. 
They  talk  together,  the  fools !  as  though 
speech  could  fly  from  soul  to  soul.  They 


144  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

gaze  at  one  another  as  though  they  were 
not  divided  by  insuperable  walls  of  dark- 
ness. 

"  Thou,  Stellus,  hast  dimly  understood 
that  thou  wert  alone  of  thy  race,  and  for 
that  reason  thou  hast  suffered.  Thou  didst 
appear  to  thyself  different  from  other  men, 
and  thou  couldst  not  resign  thyself  to  thy 
nobility.  Thou  soughtest  refuge  in  the  for- 
ests because  thy  companions  were  strangers 
to  thee,  and  thou  didst  weep  there  because 
thou  hadst  lost  thy  companions.  Thou 
hast  loved  solitude  in  the  wilds  because 
thou  sufferedst  from  being  solitary  in  the 
crowds.  And  thou  hast  not  sought  the  de- 
liverance promised  by  the  prophecies.  Yea, 
the  priests  have  well  said  :  thou  art  of  no- 
ble origin.  But,  mad,  like  the  others,  thou 
hast  sought  those  of  thy  race  among  sol- 
diers and  kings,  and  thought  that  thou 
hadst  met  with  an  equal  in  thy  bride.  I 
have  told  thee,  Stellus,  the  magical  se- 
crets. 

"  Meditate,  now,  that  the  oracle  may  be  ac- 
complished, that  thou  mayest  be  delivered 
from  all  evil  approach — from  the  evil  ap- 


EPHRAIM    MIKHAEL.  145 

proach  of  those  whom  thou  canst  no  longer 
look  upon  as  thy  brothers." 

From  the  gardens  and  from  the  palace 
where  sleeps  his  bride,  Stellus  sets  forth. 
He  walks  in  stony  plains  ;  he  climbs  up  arid 
heights ;  he  follows  shores  of  funereal  flow- 
ers, and  now  he  has  reached  a  land  over- 
shadowed by  rugged  mountains  with  steep 
and  slippery  sides.  The  inhabitants  were 
in  great  affliction ;  for,  from  the  heights  of 
the  mountain  a  monstrous  winged  horse, 
belching  forth  flames,  had  alighted  upon 
their  harvests.  The  hippogriff  shook,  with 
his  diamond  hoofs  and  clangorous  wings,  the 
walls  of  the  ancient  houses.  He  tore  up  the 
soil,  destroyed  the  seeds,  struck  dead  with  a 
glance  the  laboring  oxen.  He  ravished  the 
virgins,  bore  them  beyond  the  clouds.  They 
were  then  seen  falling  to  earth,  like  red  and 
white  flowers  fluttering  from  the  open  skies. 
A  great  clamor,  upon  the  advent  of  the  mon- 
ster, had  arisen,  imperious  and  loud  as  a  her- 
ald's voice,  and  prophetic  words  had  been 
distinguished.  The  victorious  hippogriff 
would  devastate  the  land  till  a  man  could  be 
found  who  would  voluntarily  bestride  the 


146  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

monster  between  his  Hashing  wings  and  fly 
with  him  towards  the  stars. 

Stellus  came  among  these  terror-stricken 
men,  and  a  hope  arose  in  his  breast.  Ra- 
diant, he  sought  the  elders  of  the  village, 
and  announced  that  he  would  bestride  the 
hippogriff.  The  men  greeted  Stellus  with 
long  cries  of  admiration ;  the  women  clasp- 
ed his  knees,  and  poured  upon  his  feet 
scented  oil  and  balms ;  the  sages  harangued 
the  people.  "  See,"  said  they,  "  him  who  is 
about  to  sacrifice  himself  for  you.  He  is 
young  and  famous  \  he  might  have  lived 
through  the  royal  years  of  his  life.  Yet  he 
is  willing  to  leave  the  beloved  dust  where 
we  walk  with  joy ;  he  is  willing  to  quit  the 
natal  mud  where  we  find  our  pleasure ;  he 
is  about  to  depart  for  strange  stars,  towards 
those  skies  that  prudent  men  do  not  dare 
to  contemplate.  Glory  to  the  hero  !  Gaze 
upon  him  who  loves  you  enough  to  abandon 
the  earth,  upon  him  who  is  about  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  his  brethren  !" 

While  they  were  speaking,  Stellus,  seizing 
in  his  fists  the  luminous  mane  of  the  mon- 
ster, intoned  a  song  of  triumph  :  "  Hippo- 


EPHRAI'M    MIKHAEL.  147 

griff !  liberating  hippogriff  !  bear  me  higher 
than  the  skies.  To  obey  the  divine  elder, 
we  will  cross  the  portals  of  the  horizon.  I 
shall  rush  over  the  fields  and  the  cities 
where  of  yore  I  have  suffered.  Hippogriff ! 
liberating  hippogriff !  if  no  one  awaits  us 
above  the  worlds,  let  us  roam  forever  in  the 
desert  of  the  constellations.  Thou  shalt 
cause  gleeful  sparks  to  fly  towards  the  earth. 
I  shall  be  delivered ;  I  shall  no  longer  have 
to  endure  mankind ;  I  shall  no  longer  have 
to  love  mankind.  I  shall  at  last,  among  the 
silent  stars,  learn  the  bliss  of  having  been 
born  solitary. 

"Hippogriff!  liberating  hippogriff!  if  I 
have  deserved  to  meet  those  of  my  race, 
carry  me  towards  them.  Winged  horse, 
charger  worthy  of  a  noble  horseman,  carry 
me  at  last  towards  those  who  are  really  my 
brethren.  As  a  king  returning  from  battle, 
I  shall  arise  from  the  lands  of  life  towards 
my  sidereal  dwelling." 

Stellus  was  caressing  with  his  hand  the 
neck  of  the  hippogriff.  The  astral  ways 
opened  peaceably  to  their  flight;  the  breezes 
of  heaven  murmured  words  of  welcome  ; 


148  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 

white  and  transparent  forms  leaned  upon 
the  clouds,  and  through  the  fainting  mists 
of  a  strange  dawn  the  Solitary  saw  at  last, 
shining  in  the  farthest  heavens,  the  light 
so  long  sought  for,  the  light  of  fraternal 
eyes. 


PIERRE    QUILLARD. 


THE    BROTHERS-AT-ARMS. 


JALLED  forth  by  a  dawn,  foreboder 
of  glory,  the  juvenile  heroes  had 
buckled    on    their   swords,    and 
from  under  helmets  their  tawny  manes 
gushed  like  springs  of  light  from  ten- 
ebrous rocks. 

They  set  forth.  The  scarlet  sails 
of  their  ship  flowered  the  seas,  and 
its  brazen  prow  irisated  the  scattered 
foam  of  the  waves.  For  years  they 
overran  the  world.  Their  bloody  re- 
nown, spreading  throughout  the  night, 
haunted  the  dreams  of  cities. 

They  advanced  in  battle  side  by  side, 
godlike  ;  and  like  falconers  unhooding  their 
birds  of  prey,  they  sprang  the  resplendent 
wings  of  their  swords  from  their  leathern 
sheaths  upon  the  plains. 


152  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

In  the  hold,  heavy  with  their  victorious 
piracies,  they  heaped  armor  of  gold  with 
precious  stones ;  the  carbuncles  and  rubies 
on  the  rare  fabrics  recalled  the  eyes  of 
priestesses  and  the  wounds  of  warriors. 

They  imagined  themselves  weary  of  fight- 
ing, and  returned  to  their  fatherland.  Upon 
the  ruins  of  their  birth-house  they  reared  a 
palace ;  its  walls  of  fragrant  wood  shed 
upon  the  country  unknown  perfumes. 

The  wildness  of  summer  emanated  from 
the  friezes  of  sandal-wood ;  the  stones  of 
the  Orient  survived  the  vain  corals  of  flow- 
ers. And  at  evening,  on  the  terraces,  the 
Heroes,  clad  in  purple,  seemed  in  their  splen- 
dor the  children  of  the  vanished  Sun. 

But  the  weariness  of  ever- same  hours 
slowly  gnawed  at  their  hearts.  Of  seeking 
beyond  the  seas  new  battles,  what  was  the 
good  ?  The  glaves  would  break  upon  their 
shields.  The  certainty  of  being  invincible 
saddened  their  haughty  souls. 

Upon  a  morning  of  glory  like  the  one  on 
which  they  had  set  sail,  being  alone  worthy 
of  struggling  one  against  the  other,  they 
seized  once  more  the  idle  swords  hanging 


PIERRE    QUILLARD.  153 

among  the  panoplies,  and  giving  vent  to 
shouts  of  joy,  the  savage  warriors  leaped 
forth. 

Crazed  by  their  supreme  play, 
they  cut  and  thrust  at  one 
another.  They  fought  till 
night,  and  when  the  shad-  .  , 
ows  came,  struck  by  a 
double  blow,  with  eyes  towards  the  stars, 
they  fell,  each  vanquished  in  his  brother's 
victory. 


RODOLPHE    DARZENS. 


'57 


THE   SAD   SEASON. 


ERE  is  winter. 

The  season  of  rapid 
\  dusks,  the  season  when, 
in  the  streets  glistening 
with  rain,  the  glimmer  of 
day  struggles  early  with 
the  light  of  the  lamps, 
while  through  the  humid  air  is  diffused  the 
fresh  and  acid  perfume  of  December  fruits. 
Already,  to-night,  I  have  seen  gliding  along 
the  sidewalk  the  narrow  handcart,  upon 
which  the  dark  gold  of  the  mandarins  is 
piled  up,  so  regularly,  alongside  the 
paler  gold  of  the  oranges ;  and  the 
little  handcart  passes  by  vacillating 
while  the  huckstress  utters  her  pro- 
longed cry. 

But  I  walk  fast  to  warm  myself. 


158 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


Here  is  winter. 

The  season  of  sudden  deaths,  the  season 
when,  in  the  streets  glacial  with  wind,  the 
heat  of  life  succumbs  fast  to  the  mortal 
cold,  while  in  one's  morose  soul 
spreads  the  alarming  thrill  of  un- 
known maladies.  And  to-night, 
upon  a  deserted  bench,  a  little  old 
woman  has  fallen,  dressed  all  in 
black.  Hollow,  her  eyes ;  thin,  her 
lips;  and  so  pinched  her  nostrils! 
Wasted  away,  very  pale,  yet  almost  pretty ! 
Once  more  she  has  humbly  coughed,  and 
all  is  over.  The  crowd  surges  around  her, 
curious  and  full  of  counsel. 

But  I  walk  fast  to  warm  myself. 


RODOLPHE    DARZENa  159 


ON   THE   PROMENADES. 


BEFORE  the  agony  of  day,  during 
the  hours  that  are  its  old  age, 
while  wandering  on  the  long 
and  empty  boulevards,  have  I 
not  often  met  these  little  old 
men  and  women  whom  the  magical  years 
have  so  metamorphosed  that  they  have  left 
nothing  in  them  of  what  they  once  were  ? 

No  trace  of  the  radiant  past  is  visible  on 
their  transformed  faces,  and  when  they  come, 
every  Sunday  —  as  soon  as  that  calm  day 
has  grown  old,  like  themselves  —  to  sit  on 
the  benches  yet  warm  with  the  sun,  and  re- 
main motionless  till  dusk,  attentive  to  the 
last  harmonies  of  the  tremulous  light,  I  feel 
as  weary  as  they  are,  and  more  than  once  I 
have  stopped  to  gaze  at  them. 

Dear  creatures,  ugly  and  ridiculous !  They 


160  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

are,  and  have  no  eyes ;  speak,  and  have  no 
tongue ;  try  to  live  yet,  and  hum  in  feeble 
tones,  hum  of  the  good  old  times  gone  by, 
moved  by  the  flying  light  and  by  the  soft 
heat  that  leaves  them  by  degrees.  Charm- 
ing and  superannuated,  I  remember  them 
now  and  recognize  them  ;  for  were  they  not 
you,  my  old  hopes  and  my  old  thoughts, 
were  they  not  ? 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 


i63 


"•WHOM  lovest  thdu 
the  best,  enigmatical 
man,  say,  thy  father, 
thy  mother,  thy  sister,  or  thy  brother  ?" 

"  I  have  neither  father,  nor  mother,  nor 
sister,  nor  brother." 

"  Thy  friends  ?" 

"You  use  there  a  word  whose  sense  has 
to  this  day  remained  unknown  to  me." 

"  Thy  fatherland  ?" 

"  I  know  not  in  what  latitude  it  is  situ- 
ated." 

"Beauty?" 

"I  would  fain  love -it,  godlike  and  immor- 
tal." 

"Gold?" 

"  I  hate  it  as  you  hate  God." 


164  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  Eh  ?  What  lovest  them,  then,  extraor- 
dinary stranger  ?" 

"  I  love  the  clouds  ....  the  clouds  that 
pass  ....  over  there  ....  the  marvellous 
clouds !" 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 


THE 
CONFITEOR  OF  THE  ARTIST. 

jow  penetrating  are  the  dying  days 
of   autumn  !      Ah  !  pen- 
etrating unto  pain !    For 
there    are   certain    deli- 
cious   sensations  whose 
vagueness  does  not  pre- 
vent their  intensity,  and 
there  is  no  point  sharper  than  that  of  the 
Infinite. 

Great  delight,  that  of  drowning  one's  gaze 
in  the  immensity  of  sky  and  sea  !  Solitude, 
silence,  incomparable  chastity  of  the  azure; 
a  remote  sail  that  trembles  on  the  horizon, 
and  imitates,  by  its  remoteness  and  isola- 
tion, my  irremediable  existence ;  the  monot- 
onous melody  of  the  tide — all  these  things 
think  through  me,  or  I  think  through  them 
(for  in  the  grandeur  of  revery  the  Ego  soon 


I 66  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

loses  itself) ;  they  think,  I  say,  but  musically 
and  picturesquely,  without  arguments,  with- 
out syllogisms,  without  deductions. 

But  these  thoughts,  whether  they  come 
from  me  or  spring  from  things,  become  soon 
too  intense.  Energy  in  pleasure  creates  un- 
easiness and  positive  suffering.  My  nerves, 
too  tightly  strung,  give  out  only  discordant 
and  painful  vibrations. 

And  now  the  depth  of  the  sky  dismays 
me,  its  limpidity  exasperates  me.  The  in- 
sensibility of  the  sea,  the  immutability  of  the 
spectacle  revolt  me Ah !  must  I  eter- 
nally suffer,  or  fly  eternally  from  the  beauti- 
ful ?  Nature,  enchantress  without  pity,  rival 
ever  victorious,  leave  me !  Cease  from  tempt- 
ing my  desires  and  my  pride !  The  study 
of  the  beautiful  is  a  duel  in  which  the  artist 
cries  out  with  terror  before  he  is  vanquished. 


CHARLES   BAUDELAIRE.  167 


EVERY  ONE  HIS   OWN 
CHIMERA. 


?NDER  a  great  gray  sky,  in  a 
great  powdery  plain  without 
roads,  without  grass,  without 
a  thistle,  without  a  nettle,  I  met  several  men 
who  were  walking  with  heads  bowed  down. 

Each  one  bore  upon  his  back  an  enormous 
Chimera,  as  heavy  as  a  bag  of  flour  or  of  coal, 
or  the  accoutrements  of  a  Roman  soldier. 

But  the  monstrous  beast  was  not  an  inert 
weight ;  on  the  contrary,  it  enveloped  and 
oppressed  the  man  with  its  elastic  and 
mighty  muscles ;  it  fastened  with  its  two 
vast  claws  to  the  breast  of  its  bearer,  and 
its  fabulous  head  surmounted  the  brow  of 
the  man,  like  one  of  those  horrible  helmets 
by  which  the  ancient  warriors  hoped  to  in- 
crease the  terror  of  the  enemy. 

I  questioned   one  of   these  men,  and   I 


I 68  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

asked  him  whither  they  were  bound  thus. 
He  answered  that  he  knew  not,  neither  he 
nor  the  others ;  but  that  evidently  they  were 
bound  somewhere,  since  they  were  impelled 
by  an  irresistible  desire  to  go  forward. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  not  one  of  these 
travellers  looked  irritated  at  the  ferocious 
beast  suspended  from  his  neck  and  glued 
against  his  back;  it  seemed  as  though  he 
considered  it  as  making  part  of  himself. 
None  of  these  weary  and  serious  faces  bore 
witness  to  any  despair ;  under  the  sullen 
cupola  of  the  sky,  their  feet  plunging  into 
the  dust  of  a  soil  as  desolate  as  that  sky, 
they  went  their  way  with  the  resigned  coun- 
tenances of  those  who  have  condemned 
themselves  to  hope  forever. 

And  the  procession  passed  by  me  and 
sank  into  the  horizon's  atmosphere,  where 
the  rounded  surface  of  the  planet  slips  from 
the  curiosity  of  human  sight. 

And  for  a  few  moments  I  obstinately  per- 
sisted in  wishing  to  fathom  the  mystery  ;  but 
soon  an  irresistible  indifference  fell  upon  me, 
and  I  felt  more  heavily  oppressed  by  it  than 
even  they  were  by  their  crushing  Chimeras. 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 


169 


THE  BUFFOON  AND  THE  VENUS. 


WHAT  an  admirable  after- 
noon !  The  vast  park  swoons 
under  the  burning  eye  of  the 
sun,  like  youth  under  the  dom- 
ination of  Love. 

The  universal  ecstasy  of 
things  expresses  itself  in  no 
sound ;  the  waters  themselves 
seem  asleep.  Different  from 
human  festivals,  this  is  a  silent 
orgy. 

It  seems  as  though  an  ever- 
increasing  light  makes  things 
sparkle  more  and  more ;  as 
though  the  excited  flowers 
burn  with  the  desire  to  cope 
with  the  azure  of  the  sky  by  the  violence 
of  their  colors,  and  as  though  the  heat,  mak- 


170  PASTELS    IN   PROSE. 

ing  perfumes  visible,  causes  them  to  rise 
towards  the  sun  like  vapors. 

Yet  amid  that  universal  enjoyment  I  per- 
ceived an  afflicted  being. 

At  the  feet  of  a  colossal  Venus,  one  of 
those  artificial  fools,  one  of  those  voluntary 
buffoons  whose  task  it  is  to  make  kings 
laugh  when  remorse  or  weariness  oppress- 
es them,  decked  out  in  a  loud  and  ridicu- 
lous costume,  capped  with  horns  and  bells, 
crouching  against  the  pedestal,  lifts  his  eyes, 
filled  with  tears,  towards  the  immortal  god- 
dess. 

And  his  eyes  say :  "  I  am  the  last  and  the 
most  solitary  of  mortals,  weaned  from  love 
and  friendship,  and  thus  inferior  to  the  most 
imperfect  of  animals.  Yet  I  am  made,  I  too, 
to  understand  and  feel  immortal  Beauty ! 
Ah!  Goddess,  have  pity  on  my  sorrow  and 
my  madness !" 

But  the  implacable  Venus  gazes  afar  upon 
I  know  not  what  with  her  eyes  of  marble. 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE.  171 


CROWDS. 

IT  is  not  given  to  every  one  to  take  a  bath 
of  multitude  :  the  enjoyment  of  crowds  is  an 
art;  and  he  alone  can  have  a  bout  of  vital- 
ity at  the  expense  of  humanity  to  whom  a 
fairy  has  inspired,  in  his  cradle,  a  taste  for 
travesties  and  masquerades,  the  hatred  of 
home  and  the  passion  for  travel. 

Multitude,  solitude  :  terms  equal  and  con- 
vertible by  the  active  and  fruitful  poet.  He 
who  knows  not  how  to  people  his  solitude 
knows  not  how  to  be  alone  in  a  busy 
crowd. 

The  poet  enjoys  that  imcomparable  privi- 
lege of  being  himself  or  some  one  else  at 
will.  Like  those  wandering  souls  that  seek 
a  body,  he  enters  when  he  wishes  the  per- 
sonality of  every  one.  For  him  alone  ev- 
erything is  vacant;  and  if  certain  places 


172  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 

seem  closed  to  him,  it  is  because  to  him  they 
do  not  seem  to  be  worth  a  visit. 

The  solitary  and  thoughtful  wayfarer  finds 
a  singular  intoxication  in  this  universal  com- 
munion. He  who  easily  espouses  the  crowd 
knows  feverish  enjoyments  of  which  the 
egotist,  closed  like  a  coffer,  and  the  slothful 
one,  imprisoned  like  a  mollusk,  will  be  eter- 
nally deprived.  He  adopts  as  his  own  all 
the  professions,  all  the  joys,  and  all  the  mis- 
eries that  circumstance  may  present. 

What  men  call  love  is  very  small,  very  re- 
stricted, and  very  faint  compared  to  that  in- 
effable orgy,  to  that  holy  surrender  of  the 
soul  that  gives  itself  wholly,  poetry  and 
charity,  to  the  unexpected  that  arises,  to  the 
unknown  that  passes. 

It  is  sometimes  good  to  teach  the  happy 
ones  of  this  world,  if  only  to  humiliate  for  a 
while  their  foolish  pride,  that  there  is  a  hap- 
piness superior  to  theirs,  more  vast  and 
more  refined.  The  founders  of  colonies, 
the  pastors  of  peoples,  the  missionaries  ex- 
iled to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  world, 
doubtless  know  something  of  those  mysteri- 
ous transports  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  vast 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE.  173 

family  that  their  genius  has  created  they 
must  laugh  sometimes  at  those  who  pity 
them  for  the  agitation  of  their  fortunes  and 
the  temperance  of  their  lives. 


174  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE  WINDOWS. 


looks  from  the  outside  into  an 
open  window  never  sees  as  many  things  as 
he  who  looks  at  a  closed  window.  There  is 
no  object  more  deep,  more  mysterious,  more 
dreamful,  more  tenebrous,  more  dazzling, 
than  a  window  lighted  by  a  candle.  What 
one  can  see  in  full  sunlight  is  always  less 
interesting  than  what  passes  behind  a  pane. 
In  that  black  and  luminous  hole  life  lives, 
life  dreams,  life  suffers. 

Beyond  the  billowy  roofs  I  see  a  woman 
of  middle  age,  already  wrinkled,  poor,  always 
leaning  over  something,  and  never  going  out. 
From  her  features,  from  her  dress,  from  her 
gestures,  from  a  mere  nothing,  I  have  imag- 
ined the  story  of  that  woman,  or  rather  her 
legend,  and  sometimes  I  recite  it  to  myself 
and  weep. 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 


'75 


If  it  had  been  a  poor  old  man,  I  would 
have  imagined  his  legend  quite  as  easily. 

And  I  retire,  proud  of  having  lived  and 
suffered  in  others  than  myself. 

Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  :  "  Art  thou  sure 
that  thy  legend  is  the  true  one  ?"  What 
matters  the  reality  outside  of  me,  if  it  has 
helped  me  to  live,  to  feel  that  I  am  and 
what  I  am  ! 


176  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE   BLESSINGS   OF  THE   MOON. 

THE  Moon,  that  is  caprice  itself,  looked 
through  the  windows  as  thou  wert  sleeping 
in  thy  cradle,  and  said  to  herself,  "  That 
child  pleases  me." 

And  she  softly  descended  her  stair-way  of 
clouds  and  passed  noiselessly  through  the 
panes.  She  then  stretched  herself  upon 
thee  with  the  supple  tenderness  of  a  moth- 
er, and  she  laid  her  colors  on  thy  face.  Thy 
pupils  have  since  remained  green,  and  thy 
cheeks  extraordinarily  pale.  It  was  while 
contemplating  that  visitant  that  thine  eyes 
so  oddly  widened  ;  and  so  tenderly  did  she 
clasp  thee  by  the  throat  that  thou  hast  felt, 
ever  since,  the  desire  to  weep. 

Yet  in  the  expansion  of  her  joy  the  Moon 
filled  all  the  chamber  like  a  phosphoric  at- 
mosphere, like  a  luminous  poison  ;  and  all 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 


I77 


that  living  light  thought  and  said  :  "  Thou 
shalt  eternally  suffer  the  influence  of  my 
kiss.  Thou  shalt  be  beautiful  after  my 
manner.  Thou  shalt  love  what  I  love  and 
what  loves  me:  the  water,  the  clouds,  si- 
lence and  night,  the  sea  immense  and  green 
— the  waters  uniform  and  multiform ;  the 
place  where  thou  wilt  not  be;  the 
lover  whom  thou  wilt  not  know ; 
the  monstrous  flowers,  the  per- 
fumes that  madden;  the  cats 
that  swoon  on  pianos  and 
wail  like  women,  with  voices 
raucous  and  sweet ! 

"  And  thou  shalt  be  loved 
by   my   lovers,  courted  by 
my  courtiers.     Thou  shalt 
be  the  queen  of  the  men 
with    green     eyes,    whose 
throats  I  have  also  clasped 
in   my   nocturnal   caresses ;    of   those    who 
love    the    sea,  the     immense,    tumultuous, 
green  sea,  the  waters  uniform   and  multi- 
form, the  place  where  they  are  not,  the  wom- 
en whom  they  do  not  know,  the  sinister  flow- 
ers that  resemble  the  censers  of  an  unknown 


178  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

religion,  the  perfumes  that  obscure  the  will, 
and  the  savage  and  voluptuous  animals  that 
are  emblematical  of  their  madness." 

And  it  is  for  that,  accursed  and  beloved 
child  whom  I  spoil,  that  I  am  now  lying  at 
thy  feet,  seeking  in  all  thy  being  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  redoubtable  divinity,  of  the  pro- 
phetic godmother,  of  the  poisoning  nurse  of 
all  the  lunatics. 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE.  179 


ANYWHERE 
OUT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

HIS  life  is  a  hospital 
where  every  patient 
is  possessed  with  the 
desire  to  change  his  bed.  This  one  would 
prefer  to  suffer  before  the  stove,  and  that 
other  thinks  that  he  would  recover  by  the 
window. 

It  always  seems  to  me  that  I  will  be  bet- 
ter where  I  am  not,  and  that  question  of  re- 
moval is  one  that  I  discuss  incessantly  with 
my  soul. 

"  Tell  me,  my  soul,  poor  chilled  soul, 
what  wouldst  thou  think  of  dwelling  in  Lis- 
bon ?  It  must  be  warm  there,  and  thou 
wouldst  grow  as  lusty  as  a  lizard.  The  city 
is  on  the  sea-shore ;  they  say  that  it  is  built 
of  marble,  and  that  the  inhabitants  have 
such  a  dislike  for  anything  green  that  they 


180  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

uproot  all  the  trees.  There  is  a  landscape 
after  thy  taste,  a  landscape  composed  of 
light  and  minerals,  and  water  to  reflect 
them." 

My  soul  makes  no  answer. 

"  Since  thou  lovest  repose  so  well,  com- 
bined with  the  sight  of  movement,  wilt  thou 
come  and  dwell  in  Holland,  that  beatifying 
land?  Mayhaps  thou  wouldst  find  distrac- 
tion in  that  country,  whose  image  thou  hast 
so  often  admired  in  the  museums.  What 
wouldst  think  of  Rotterdam,  thou  who  lov- 
est forests  of  masts,  and  ships  anchored 
before  the  steps  of  houses  ?" 

My  soul  remains  dumb. 

"Thou  wouldst  smile,  perhaps,  on  Ba- 
tavia  ?  We  would  find  there  the  mind  of 
Europe  joined  to  the  beauty  of  the  tropics." 

Not  a  word. — Is  my  soul  dead  ? 

"  Hast  thou,  then,  attained  such  a  state 
of  numbness  that  thou  findest  pleasure  only 
in  thy  sorrow?  If  so,  let  us  fly  to  the  lands 
that  are  the  analogues  of  Death.  —  I  have 
it,  poor  soul !  I  will  pack  my  trunk  for  Tor- 
neo.  Let  us  go  yet  farther,  to  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  Baltic ;  yet  farther  from  life,  if 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE.  l8l 

possible ;  let  us  settle  at  the  Pole.  There 
the  sun  slants  upon  the  earth,  and  the  slow 
alternations  of  light  and  night  suppress  va- 
riety and  increase  monotony,  that  half  of 
Nothingness.  There  we  shall  be  able  to 
take  long  baths  of  darkness,  while,  to  divert 
us,  the  aurora  borealis  will  send  us  from 
time  to  time  its  rosy  rays,  like  the  reflection 
of  the  fireworks  of  Hell !" 

At  last  my  soul  bursts  forth,  and  wisely 
cries  to  me  :  "  Anywhere  !  anywhere  !  as 
long  as  it  be  out  of  the  world  !" 


DEIAROTE- 


ACHILLE   DELAROCHE. 


THE   CONQUERING 
DREAM. 


i  HE  sinister  thunder  of  war- 
horns  crashes  in  the 
bloody  West. 

Under  the  livid  West 
the  lawless  dances  cir- 
cle around  the  swords 
rusted  with  ruddy  clots. 
The  thatched  huts,  the  granite  ramparts, 
the  white  tents  of  the  nomads  smoke  in  an- 
guish towards  the  indifferent  stars. 

The  horde  of  the  males  rolling  in  a  wind 
of  panic ! 

Mothers  in  tears,  heavy  with  the  hope  of 
childbirth,  lifting  their  palms,  with 
prayers   or   imprecations,  towards 
the  dumb  hostility  of  heaven  ! 

The  red  pride  of  the  Barbarians 
is  about  to  trample  under  the  steel 


1 86  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

of  their  horses'  hoofs  the  prostrate  and 
panting  flesh  of  the  vanquished. 

The  war-horns  sound  the  supreme  knell. 

But  thou !  while  the  white  robes  redden  in 
the  purple  of  the  bloody  West, 

While  the  helmets  and  battle-axes  glisten 
in  the  seething  fight, 

Who  art  thou,  ascetic  and  solitary,  who 
heardest  not  the  cry  of  thy  brethren  ? 

Who  ?  The  Dreamer !  with  thy  hand  upon 
thy  Vedic  staff,  deaf  to  the  vain  tumult  of 
the  cities,  scrutinizing  the  algebra  of  the 
cosmic  arcana ! 

Lifting  thy  purified  will  towards  the  new 
God,  conqueror  of  gods,  thou  listenest  to 
the  sublime  rhythm  of  the  spheres  echoing 
in  thy  bosom. 

And  thou  causest  to  spring  for  the  future, 
from  the  mystic  symbol,  the  divination  of  a 
peaceful  strife  of  ideas. 

At  thy  feet  the  tribes  will  lay  down  the 
sacrilege  of  their  homicidal  swords,  O  Seer  ! 

O  Magician  whose  brow  is  aureoled  with 
the  new  dawn  which  will  force  the  steel  and 
purples  to  pale  before  thy  triumphant  Eu- 
reka ! 


STEPHANE   MALLARME.  189 


I M  JHJTUMN. 


SINCE  Maria  has  left  me  for  another  star 
— which  one,  Orion,  Altai'r,  or  is  it  thou, 
green  Venus  ?— I  have  always  cherished  soli- 
tude. How  many  long  days  have  I  passed 
alone  with  my  cat !  By  a/one,  I  mean  with 
no  material  being ;  and  my  cat  is  a  mystic 
companion,  a  spirit.  I  can  therefore  say 
that  I  have  passed  long  days  with  my  cat, 
and  alone,  with  one  of  the  last  authors  of 
the  Latin  decadence.  For  since  the  white 
creature  is  no  more,  strangely  and  singularly 
have  I  loved  all  that  is  summed  up  in  that 
word :  fall.  Thus,  of  the  year,  my  favorite 
season  is  the  last  languishing  days  of  sum- 
mer, that  immediately  precede  autumn  ;  and 
of  the  day,  the  hour  that  I  choose  for  going 
forth  is  when  the  sun  rests  before  sinking, 
with  rays  of  yellow  brass  upon  the  gray  walls, 


190  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

and  of  red  brass  upon  the  window-panes. 
In  the  same  way  the  literature  from  which 
my  spirit  seeks  a  sad  voluptuousness  will  be 
the  agonizing  poetry  of  the  last  moments  of 
Rome,  so  long,  however,  as  it  in  nowise  be- 
trays the  rejuvenating  approach  of  the  Bar- 
barians, and  does  not  lisp  the  infantile  Latin 
of  the  first  Christian  prose. 

I  was  therefore  reading  one  of  those 
dear  poems  (whose  scaling  enamel  has  more 
charm  for  me  than  the  carnation  of  youth), 
and  had  plunged  a  hand  in  the  fur  of  the 
pure  animal,  when  a  barrel-organ  began  to 
sing  languishingly  and  mournfully  under  my 
window.  It  played  in  the  long  walk  of  pop- 
lars, whose  leaves  seem  to  me  yellow,  even  in 
summer,  since  Maria  has  passed  there  with 
tapers  for  the  last  time.  The  instrument 
of  those  that  are  sad,  yes,  truly :  the  piano 
scintillates,  the  violin  opens  light  to  the  torn 
soul,  but  the  barrel-organ,  in  the  dusk  of 
memory,  has  made  me  despairingly  dream. 
Now  that  it  was  murmuring  a  joyously  vul- 
gar tune,  that  made  the  heart  of  the  fau- 
bourgs grow  merry,  a  superannuated  and 
hackneyed  tune,  whence  came  it  that  its 


STEPHANE    MALLARME.  191 

flourishes  lured  me  to  dreams  and  made  me 
weep  like  a  romantic  ballad  ?  I  imbibed  it 
slowly,  and  I  refrained  from  throwing  a  pen- 
ny out  of  the  window,  for  fear  of  making  a 
movement  and  of  finding  that  the  instrument 
was  not  singing  of  itself. 


I92 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THAT  timepiece  of  Saxony,  that  delays 
and  rings  thirteen  hours  among  its  flowers 
and  its  gods,  to  whom  has  it  belonged  ?  Me- 
thinks  that  it  came  from  Saxony  by  the  slow 
stage-coaches,  of  yore. 

(Singular  shadows  hang  from  the  tarnish- 
ed panes.) 

And  thy  Venetian  mirror,  deep  as  a  cool 
fountain  in  its  frame  of  ungilt  chimeras, 
whom  has  it  reflected  ?  I  am  sure  that  more 
than  one  woman  has  bathed  in  its  water  the 
sin  of  her  beauty;  and  perchance  I  might 
see  a  naked  ghost  if  I  looked  long  enough. 

"  Mischievous  one,  thou  often  sayest  wick- 
ed things."  .  .  . 


STEPHANE    MALLARME.  193 

(I  see  spider-webs  high  up  on  the  great 
windows.) 

Our  coffer  is  very  old :  behold  how  the  fire 
reddens  its  sad  wood-work;  the  deadened 
curtains  are  as  old  as  it,  and  the  tapestry 
of  the  arm-chairs  whose  colors  have  grown 
dim,  and  the  ancient  engravings  on  the 
walls,  and  all  our  olden  furniture.  Seem- 
eth  it  not  to  thee,  indeed,  that  the  bengalis 
and  the  bluebird  have  lost  their  tints  with 
time? 

(Do  not  think  of  the  spider-webs  that 
tremble  high  up  on  the  great  windows.) 

Thou  lovest  all  those  things,  and  that  is 
why  I  can  live  near  thee.  Hast  thou  not 
desired,  O  my  sister  whose  eyes  look  out 
from  the  past,  that  in  one  of  my  poems  should 
appear  these  words,  "the  grace  of  faded 
things?"  New  objects  displease  thee;  thee 
also  do  they  frighten  with  their  shrieking 
boldness,  and  thou  wouldst  feel  the  need  of 
using  them — a  difficult  task  for  those  who 
do  not  relish  action. 
13 


i94 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


Come,  close  thine  old  German  almanac, 
which  them  readest  with  attention,  although 
it  appeared  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago, 
and  the  kings  that  it  announces  are  all 
dead ;  and  throwing  myself  on  the  ancient 
carpet,  my  head  cradled  between  thy  chari- 
table knees  on  thy  dress  of  dim  colors,  O 
tranquil  child,  I  will  talk  to  thee  for  hours  ; 
there  are  no  more  fields,  and  the  streets  are 
empty,  and  I  will  talk  to  thee  of  our  furni- 
ture. Thou  art  absent-minded  ? 


(Those  spider- 
webs  shake  high 
on  the  great  win- 
dows.) 


JEMILE    HENNEQUIN.  197 


MINORATION. 


ET  all  that  is  be  no  more. 

Let  glances  fade  and  the  vivac- 
ity of  gestures  fall. 
Let  us  be  humble,  soft,  and  slow. 
Let   love   be    without    passion,   and 
let  us  exchange  weary  caresses. 

Let  the  wise  man  speak  smilingly 
of  his  wisdom,  let  the  poet  be  indulgent  to 
his  art. 

Let  there  be  some  who  forgive  and  many 
who  forget. 

Let  us  sleep,  and  let  us  live  in  all  ways 
more  like  the  dead. 

And  perhaps  existence  will  lose  some  of 
its  harshness  ;  perhaps  in  a  tideless  calm 
some  souls  will  find  repose ;  there  will  be 
half-opened  lips  and  wandering  eyes,  and 
groping  hands  happy  to  meet. 


198  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


THE   QUEST. 


GO  seeking  in  the  eyes  of  women  mute 

promises  of  bliss. 

And  my  glances  cross,  and  my  glances 
arrest  eyes  that  are  either  void  or  distant, 
or  turned  aside, 

In  which  I  perceive  solely  the  incuri- 
osity of  all  and  of  myself. 

I  became  thus  indifferent  to  others. 

And  my  eyes  also  decline  appeals  for 
compassion,  and,  void  themselves,  know  how 
to  plunge  into  emptiness,  and  touch  with  a 
passing  glance  the  vaguest  passers-by. 

For  I  have  learned  to  keep  their  softness 
for  my  own  wounds,  and  I  pour  out  liberally 
for  myself  the  consolations  denied  to  others 
and  by  others. 

Let  every  one  be  his  own  lover,  said  He. 


EMILE    HENNEQUIN. 


I99 


A    DREAM. 

a  church,  whose  pillars  are  gray  with 
age,  under  the  lifted  hands  of  the 
blessing  priest,  little  girls  are  kneel- 
ing. 

They  wear  black  frocks,  and  upon 

their   black   ringlets,  over   their  clear 

eyes  and  their  pink  brows,  they  bear 

round  wreaths  of  white  roses. 
When  they  have   arisen,  they 

depart  by  the  low  arches  ;   and 

following  them,  I  am  joined  by 

the  palest  of  them  all,  in  her  black 

frock  and  with  her  white  wreath. 
And  fixing  upon  me  her  hum- 
ble eyes  full  of  sorrow,  lifting  her 

head  up  to  mine,  she  says,  very 

slowly,  "Are  there  far-away  lands 

of  delight,  satisfied,  satisfying?" 


200  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"Alas!"  said  I,  "they  are  all  the  same, 
neither  evil  nor  good,  and  gray  is  life,  and 
gray  is  death." 

She  had  left,  but  came  back  palely  smil- 
ing; around  my  neck  she  locked  her  arms, 
and  touched  my  cheek  with  her  lips,  cold 
lips.  .  .  . 

"Alas !"  said  I,  "  they  are  all  the  same, 
all  the  kisses,  mine  and  thine,  and  dim  is 
life  and  dim  is  death." 


EMILE    HENNEQUIN.  2OI 


THE   IRREMEDIABLE. 


OFTEN  say  to  my  sad  heart :  "  If  this 
trouble  were  taken  away  from  me 
I  would  smile  again,  I  would  have 
cheerful  eyes  that  please.     If  this 
trouble  were  taken  away  from  me, 
who  knows  if  I  would  not  be  happy  ?" 
But  the  inner  voice,  perspicacious  and  un- 
deceivable,  makes  answer :  "  If  that  trouble 
were  taken  away  from  thee ;  thou  wouldst 
bow  beneath  this  other  weight  or  that;  and 
if,  free  from  suffering,  thou  didst  attempt  to 
redress  thy  wounded  soul,  thou  wouldst  feel 
it  irremediably  bent,  like  those  flexible  masts 
that  a  perpetual  storm  has  inflected." 

And  I  remain  thus,  dreaming,  listening  to 
that  interminable  dialogue  between  the  heart 
that  desires  and  the  reason  that  reprehends, 
going  from  hypothesis  to  hypothesis,  like  a 


202  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

blind  bird  casting  itself  incessantly  against 
the  four  walls  of  its  cage. 

And  when  I  have  made  a  thousand  times 
the  circuit  of  my  inextricable  dilemma,  I 
load  my  back  once  more  with  my  changeful 
yet  identical  destiny;  then  staggering  under 
the  familiar  weight,  resuming  the  ancient 
and  rugged  road  with  my  fellow-men  con- 
demned like  me  to  death,  I  obstinately  re- 
peat to  my  sad  heart :  "  If  this  trouble  were 
taken  away  from  me,  who  knows  if  I  would 
not  be  happy  ?" 


JiMILE    HENNEQUIN. 


IN  our  crazed  brains  words  are  visions, 
visions  ecstatic,  visions  chimerical,  are  vi- 
sions without  models  and  without  object, 
ideals  rather  than  images,  desires  rather 
than  reminiscences ;  and  how  distant  these 
ideals,  how  painful  these  desires  ! 

There  is  no  woman  who  gives  us  the  ra- 
diant dream  that  lurks  beneath  the  word 
Woman  ;  there  is  no  wine  that  realizes  the 
intoxication  imagined  by  the  word  Wine ; 
there  is  no  gold,  pale  gold  or  dusky  gold, 
that  gives  out  the  tawny  fulguration  of  the 
word  Gold ;  there  is  no  perfume  that  our 
deceived  nostrils  find  equal  to  the  word  Per- 
fume ;  no  blue,  no  red  that  figures  the  tints 
with  which  our  imaginations  are  colored ; 
all  is  too  little  for  the  word  All ;  and  no 


204  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

nothingness  is  an  empty  enough  vacuity  as 
to  be  that  arch-terrorist  word,  Nothing. 

What  is  to  be  done,  then,  in  this  world 
where  everything  is  beneath  our  expecta- 
tions ?  What  is  to  be  done,  O  my  mind, 
with  these  diminished  realities,  reduced  and 
dim  images  of  our  thoughts,  sticks  of  which 
we  have  made  thyrses,  banjos  of  which  we 
have  made  citherns,  aquarelles  that  we  have 
anilinized,  dreams  opiated  by  us.  In  truth, 
incapable  of  lowering  itself,  incapable  also 
of  raising  things,  let  my  spirit  continue  to 
suffer  the  shrill  dissonance,  to  see  the  re- 
pugnant contrast,  to  feel  the  disproportion, 
till  the  inferior  has  won  and  till  matter  has 
taken  back  to  its  bosom  what  scorned  it  for 
having  too  much  loved  it. 


EMILE    HENNEQUIN.  205 


THE   EARTH. 


DDYING  through  the  blue  or  black 
heavens  of  nights  and  of  days, 
full  in  her  deep  hollows  of  the 
tumultuous  water  of  the  seas,  turgid  and  flat, 
the  earth  curves,  sinuates,  and  rises,  dry  un- 
der the  fresh  air,  firm  and  mobile,  jutting 
forth  in  mountains,  falling  away  in  plains, 
brown  and  all  woven  with  the  silver  woof 
of  rivers  and  lakes,  green  and  all  bristling 
with  trees,  with  plants,  with  grass. 

The  sea  lashes  the  shores,  glaucous, 
troubled,  assailing,  and  broken,  or  fair  and 
full  of  slow  volutes ;  she  encircles  the  conti- 
nents with  mists,  with  storms,  with  shimmer- 
ing waters,  languishingly  dying;  the  earth 
emerges  massive  and  stable,  sleeping  in 
shadow  or  striated  with  red,  yellow,  and 


206  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

green,  according  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  day; 
aired  by  the  winds,  swept  by  the  rains,  bear- 
ing upon  its  huge  members  the  swarming 
agitation  of  beings,  the  growth  of  plants, 
and  the  song  of  insects,  the  gallop  of  beasts, 
and  the  dumb  trepidation  of  cities.  Con- 
tinuous murmur  of  life  eternally  threatened 
by  the  sea,  monstrous  in  the  thunder  of  its 
awful  floods. 

And  there  are  heavens  of  hope,  there  are 
heavens  of  light,  summits  lifting  to  the 
clouds  the  tender  strength  of  sprouts ;  there 
are  white  splashes  of  water  wetting  with 
brine  the  rapid  flight  of  sea-gulls,  high- 
standing  forests  circling  in  shadow  the  vel- 
vet of  the  green  pastures,  aromatic  and  soft ; 
the  mountains  lift  and  swell  their  heavy 
shrouds  of  immaculate  snows,  and  the  sharp 
peaks  point  the  extreme  pinnacles  of  their 
rocks  towards  the  unknown  and  magnifi- 
cently vaulted  abysms,  vermeil  and  tene- 
brous, whence  spread  the  imperious  splen- 
dor of  the  sun,  the  playful  sweetness  of  the 
moon,  and  the  peace  of  the  mysteriously 
palpitating  stars. 


ADRIEN    REMACLE.  2 09 


THE   CITY. 

THE  Poet  goes  forth  on  the  road,  refusing 
to  mingle  with  the  crowds,  ages  ahead  and 
ages  behind  the  other  wayfarers.  He  is 
child,  youth,  and  man,  but  ever  young  and 
fair.  He  goes  before  him,  thinking  that  he 
discerns,  every  hour,  through  the  mists  of 
the  morning,  beyond  the  suns  of  the  day, 
above  the  vapors  of  the  evening,  emerging 
from  opaque  nights,  blue  beneath  the  serene 
moons,  the  sparkling  domes  of  the  City  of 
Dreams. 

Ami  he  sings  of  that  City  as  he  walks. 

He  sees,  above  the  blue  and  pink  mount- 
ains, heavens  of  purple,  gold  riven  with 
long  flashes,  aureoled  with  confused  cities 
scintillating  in  sombre  distances ;  behind 
those  mountains,  under  the  heavens,  opens 
the  vast  portico  of  the  City. 
14 


210  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

And  he  sings  of  that  City  as  he  walks. 

The  rivers  and  the  seas  reveal  to  him 
green  deepnesses,  blue  abysms,  unknown 
reflections  of  the  grandeurs  of  the  past, 
mirages  prophetic  of  future  monuments : 
mere  approaches  and  presages  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  City. 

And  he  sings  of  that  City  as  he  walks  by  the 
waters. 

War  is  howling  in  the  plains,  around  the 
mountains.  He  stops  and  he  watches  ;  he 
hearkens  to  the  clashing  of  swords,  to  the 
thunder  of  iron.  He  shudders ;  those  men 
must  fight  for  the  City. 

And  he  sings  of  that  City  as  he  walks  with 
the  men. 

When  the  warlike  bands  are  silent,  he 
passes  through  peaceful  gardens ;  the  young 
women  admire  and  follow  him  ;  he  bears  a 
golden  nimbus,  his  words  exhale  an  un- 
known perfume,  the  breeze  in  his  locks 
makes  melody.  He  stops  :  here  are  desert- 
ers from  the  City. 

He  asks  them  the  way,  and  sings  of  them  as 
he  walks. 

WThen  the  Poet  has  walked  long  he  is 


ADRIEN    REMACLE. 


211 


weary  of  the  road.  He  meets  a  woman  in 
white  :  he  recognizes  her.  She  comes  tow- 
ards him :  it  is  she  who  will  lead  me  into 
the  City. 

And  he  sings  of  the  City,  and  he  falls  asleep 
in  dreams. 


PAUL    MARGUERITTE.  215 


THE   DEATH    OF   PIERROT. 

f[PANTO- 
MIMK.  ] 
is  in  a  lunar  garden,  where  color- 
less roses  sleep  amid  the   shadowy 
leafage.     A  cold  Moon  mirrors  her- 
self in  a  blue  pond.     A  nightingale's 
song  weeps  upon    the  earth.      And 
in  a  ray  of  the  moon,  entwined  in  one  an- 
other's arms,  Pierrot  all  white  and  Colum- 
bine all  pink  in  her  outblown  gauze  skirt, 
sit  motionless  on  a  stone  bench — amorous 
couple  whose  mingled  lips  palpitate  in  a  long 
embrace.     They  love  one  another  distract- 
edly.    Long  looks,  vows,  raptures,  beneath 
that  nocturnal  sky,  that  moon,  those  flowers, 
those  songs  of  birds,  they  bear  witness,  they 
swear  to  their  tenderness.     And  then  they 
are  entwined   anew  in   one   another's   arms 
and  faint  with  love. 

But  a  mysterious  suffering  contracts  Col- 


2l6 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


umbine's  features ;  she  springs  to  her  feet, 
and  one  hand  upon  her  wounded  heart,  she 
gasps  like  a  dying  bird.  She  suffers.  A 
sudden  damp  empearls  her  pale  forehead. 
Oh,  the  terrifying  an- 
guish of  Pierrot !  The 
nightingale  is  silent. 

A  heavy,  an  awful 
silence  weighs  on  all 
things.  And  the 
thought  of  death  in- 
sinuates itself  in  the 
minds  of  Columbine 
and  Pierrot.  Death  ! 

yes.  The  invisible  spectre,  the  watcher 
that  walks  in  the  shadow  of  the  living.  Col- 
umbine sees  him,  and  with  out -stretched 
finger,  in  unutterable  dread,  she  points  to 
him.  Pierrot,  armed  with  a  spade  that  he 
has  picked  up  in  the  grass,  leaps  forward 
against  the  enemy  that  cannot  be  seized. 
Columbine  smiles,  already  frozen  and  cold 
as  marble,  and  disarms  Pierrot,  who  resigns 
himself.  But  indignation  seizes  him. 

"  To  die  ?     Ah  !  can  that  be  ?     The  eyes 
of  Columbine,  so  beautiful, — what ! — will  be 


PAUL    MARGUERITTE. 


217 


closed  ?  Her  sweet  beauty  will  fall  into  hor- 
rible dust.  The  awful  worms !  But  before 
that !  The  anguish  of  burial,  of  prayers,  all 
the  horror  of  mortuary  ceremonies.  No!" 
And  he  shakes  his  fist  to  heaven,  curses  God, 
wants  to  die. 

But  Columbine  dan- 
ces, and  her  light  shad- 
ow dances  with  her  on 
the  blue  water.  She 
dances,  and  her  arms  re- 
pel and  banish ;  her  feet 
fly  from  the  earth ;  she 
melts  little  by  little,  di- 
aphanous and  light,  like 
a  butterfly  of  gauze. 
"Ah!  return  !"  cries  Pierrot.  And  he  stretch- 
es out  his  hands  despairingly.  Touched  by 
his  appeal,  she  runs  back,  she  nestles  against 
him.  But  already  he  feels  that  she  is  no 
longer  living;  and  she  throws  herself  back, 
her  eyes  wide  open,  her  gauze  skirt  agitated 
by  long  spasms,  like  the  wings  of  a  butterfly. 

"Columbine!"  implores  Pierrot;  but  she 
falls  dead. 

He  shakes  the  poor  little  listless  being, 


2l8  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

that  is  no  more  than  a  rag.  Ah !  where  has 
she  gone  to  ?  He  calls  her.  For  she  is  no 
more  in  that  sad  body.  Ah !  but  where  then  ? 
In  the  golden  moon,  the  blue  sky,  the  roses, 
the  pond?  Where  can  he  rejoin  her,  and 
how  ?  Die  also  ?  Come,  poor  inanimate 
body.  Pierrot  leans  over  Columbine,  clasps 
around  his  neck  the  dead  arms  of  the  child, 
and  stepping  on  the  stone  balustrade  of  the 
pond — plouf ! — he  throws  himself  in  the 
water,  after  a  long  shudder  of  horror. 

The  nightingale  sings  their  requiem.  The 
roses,  in  the  lunar  garden,  have  not  awaken- 
ed. They  sleep  amid  the  shadowy  leafage. 
The  cold  moon  is  mirrored  in  the  blue  pond. 
And  the  stone  bench  of  the  departed  lovers 
glistens,  white  and  empty,  in  the  nocturnal 
light. 


MAURICE    DE   GUERIN.  221 


I  HAD  my  birth  in  the  caverns  of  these 
mountains.  Like  the  stream  of  this  val- 
ley whose  first  drops  trickle  from  some 
rock  that  weeps  in  a  deep  grotto,  the  first 
moment  of  my  life  fell  in  the  darkness  of 
a  remote  abode  and  without  troubling  the 
silence.  When  our  mothers  draw  near  to  the 
time  of  their  delivery,  they  withdraw  to  the 
caverns,  and  in  the  depth  of  the  wildest  of 
them,  in  the  thickest  of  its  gloom,  they  bring 
forth,  without  uttering  a  plaint,  fruits  silent 
as  themselves.  Their  mighty  milk  makes  us 
surmount  without  languor  or  dubious  strug- 
gle the  first  difficulties  of  life  ;  yet  we  leave 
our  caverns  later  than  you  your  cradles. 
For  the  belief  is  current  among  us  that  the 


222  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

first  days  of  existence  should  be  hidden  and 
enshrouded,  as  days  filled  with  the  presence 
of  the  gods.  My  growth  was  almost  entirely 
accomplished  in  the  darkness  where  I  was 
born.  The  recesses  of  my  dwelling  pene- 
trated so  far  into  the  thickness  of  the  mount- 
ain that  I  would  not  have  known  on  what  side 
was  the  entrance,  had  not  the  winds,  when 
they  sometimes  found  their  way  through  the 
opening,  sent  freshness  in,  and  a  sudden 
trouble.  Sometimes,  too,  my  mother  came 
back  to  me,  having  about  her  the  perfumes 
of  the  valleys;  or  streaming  from  the  waters 
which  she  frequented.  Her  returning  thus, 
without  speaking  of  the  valleys  or  the  riv- 
ers, but  with  their  emanations  about  her, 
troubled  my  spirit,  and  I  wandered  restless- 
ly in  the  darkness.  "  What  is  it,"  I  thought, 
"that  outside  world  whither  my  mother 
goes,  and  what  reigns  in  it  so  potent  as  to 
call  her  to  it  so  often?  And  what  is  felt 
in  it  so  conflicting  that  she  returns  each 
day  with  different  emotions?"  My  mother 
came  back  to  me  sometimes  animated  with 
a  profound  joy,  sometimes  sorrowful  and 
lagging  and  as  though  wounded.  The  joy 


MAURICE    DE   GUERIN.  223 

that  she  brought  back  betrayed  itself  from 
afar  in  some  peculiarities  of  her  walk  and 
in  her  looks.  It  found  response  in  my 
breast.  But  her  despondency  affected  me 
far  more,  and  carried  me  far  deeper  into 
those  conjectures  to  which  my  spirit  was 
prone.  At  such  moments  I  was  troubled 
by  my  own  strength ;  I  recognized  in  it 
a  power  that  could  not  remain  solitary; 
and  betaking  myself  either  to  toss  my  arms 
or  to  multiply  my  gallopings  in  the  spacious 
shadows  of  the  cavern,  I  endeavored  to 
discover,  from  the  blows  that  I  dealt  in 
space,  and  from  the  transports  of  my  course 
through  it,  in  what  direction  my  arms  were 
to  stretch  and  my  feet  to  bear  me.  Since 
then  I  have  wound  my  arms  around  the 
busts  of  Centaurs,  and  the  bodies  of  heroes, 
and  the  trunks  of  oaks;  my  hands  have  tried 
the  rocks,  the  waters,  the  innumerable  plants, 
and  the  subtlest  impressions  of  the  air ;  for 
I  uplift  them  in  the  dark  and  calm  nights, 
that  they  may  catch  the  winds  and  show 
signs  whereby  I  may  divine  my  road.  My 
feet — see,  O  Melampus,  how  worn  they  are  ! 
And  yet,  all  benumbed  as  T  am  in  this  ex- 


224  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 

tremity  of  age,  there  are  days  when,  in  the 
full  sunlight,  upon  the  summits,  I  repeat 
these  gallopings  of  my  youth  in  the  cavern, 
with  the  same  purpose,  brandishing  my 
arms  and  employing  all  that  is  left  of  my 
fleetness. 

These  disturbances  alternated  with  long 
absences  of  any  anxious  movement.  Thence- 
forth I  possessed  in  my  whole  being  no 
other  sentiment  than  that  of  the  growth  and 
degrees  of  life  rising  in  my  breast.  Having 
lost  the  love  of  wild  transports  and  retired 
into  absolute  rest,  I  tasted  without  altera- 
tion the  kindly  influence  of  the  gods  dif- 
fused within  me.  Peace  and  shade  preside 
over  the  secret  charm  of  the  sentiment  of 
life.  Shades  that  dwell  among  the  caves  of 
these  mountains  !  I  owe  to  your  silent  care 
the  hidden  education  which  has  so  powerful- 
ly nurtured  me,  and  that  I  have,  under  your 
protection,  tasted  life  in  its  purity  and  as  it 
came  to  me  flowing  from  the  bosom  of  the 
gods.  When  I  emerged  from  your  retreat 
into  the  light  of  day,  I  tottered  and  hailed  it 
not,  for  it  took  possession  of  me  with  vio- 
lence, making  me  drunk  as  would  have  done 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN.  225 

a  fatal  liquor  suddenly  poured  into  my  breast, 
and  1  felt  that  my  being,  until  then  so  firm 
and  so  simple,  was  unsettled  and  was  losing 
much  of  itself,  as  though  it  would  have  scat- 
tered to  the  winds. 

O  Melampus !  thou  who  wouldst  know  the 
life  of  the  Centaurs,  by  what  will  of  the 
gods  hast  thou  been  guided  towards  me,  the 
oldest  and  most  forlorn  of  them  all  ?  It  is 
long  since  I  have  ceased  to  practise  any 
part  of  their  life.  I  no  longer  leave  this 
mountain  summit  to  which  age  has  confined 
me.  The  points  of  my  arrows  now  serve 
me  only  to  uproot  tenacious  plants ;  the 
tranquil  lakes  know  me  still,  but  the  rivers 
have  forgotten  me.  I  will  tell  thee  some- 
thing of  my  youth ;  but  these  recollections, 
issuing  from  a  worn  memory,  flow  slowly, 
like  the  drops  of  an  ungenerous  libation 
falling  from  a  damaged  urn.  I  easily  told 
thee  of  my  first  years,  as  they  were  peaceful 
and  perfect ;  it  was  life  single  and  simple 
that  satiated  me  ;  all  of  it  is  easily  recalled 
and  recited.  A  god  besought  to  relate  his 
life  would  give  it  in  two  words,  O  Melam- 
pus ! 
15 


226  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

The  course  of  my  youth  was  rapid  and 
full  of  agitation.  I  lived  on  movement  and 
knew  no  limit  to  my  steps.  In  the  pride  of 
my  free  strength  I  roamed,  pushing  in  all 
directions  over  these  deserts.  One  day, 
when  I  was  following  a  valley  through  which 
the  Centaurs  seldom  venture,  I  discovered  a 
man  making  his  way  along  the  river  on  the 
opposite  bank.  He  was  the  first  who  had 
offered  himself  to  my  sight ;  I  despised  him. 
"  Behold,"  I  said  to  myself;  "  at  the  utmost 
but  the  half  of  my  being!  How  short  are 
his  steps  !  and  how  awkward  is  his  gait ! 
His  eyes  seem  to  measure  space  with  sad- 
ness. Doubtless  he  is  a  Centaur  over- 
thrown by  the  gods,  and  reduced  by  them 
thus  to  drag  himself  along." 

I  often  rested  from  the  wanderings  of 
these  days  in  the  bed  of  rivers.  One  half 
of  myself,  hidden  below  the  waters,  strove 
in  movement  to  keep  above  them,  while  the 
other  half  arose  tranquil,  and  I  lifted  my 
idle  arms  high  above  the  flood.  I  would 
thus  forget  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  waters, 
yielding  to  the  impulse  of  their  course,  which 
carried  me  afar  and  led  their  wild  guest  to 


MAURICE    DE   GUERIN.  227 

all  the  charms  of  their  banks.  How  often, 
surprised  by  the  night,  have  I  followed  the 
currents  beneath  the  spreading  shadows 
that  cast  to  the  depths  of  the  valleys  the 
nocturnal  influence  of  the  gods !  My  im- 
petuous life  would  then  calm  down  till  it 
left  nothing  but  a  faint  consciousness  of  my 
existence,  diffused  in  equal  measure  through- 
out my  whole  being,  like  the  gleams  in  the 
waters  where  I  swam,  of  the  night-roaming 
goddess.  Melampus,  my  old  age  regrets  the 
rivers ;  peaceful  for  the  most  part  and  mo- 
notonous they  follow  their  destiny  with  more 
calm  than  the  Centaurs,  and  a  wisdom  more 
beneficent  than  that  of  men.  When  I  left 
their  bosom  I  was  followed  by  their  gifts, 
which  accompanied  me  for  whole  days  and 
retired  slowly,  in  the  manner  of  perfumes. 

A  wild  and  blind  inconstancy  disposed  of 
my  footsteps.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  vio- 
lent races  it  happened  that  I  would  sudden- 
ly break  my  gallop,  as  if  a  chasm  had  open- 
ed at  my  feet,  or  else  a  god  had  stood  before 
me.  These  sudden  immobilities  allowed  me 
to  feel  my  life  agitated  by  the  transports 
in  which  I  found  myself.  Of  yore,  in  the 


228  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

forest,  I  used  to  cut  boughs  which,  while  run- 
ning,  I  lifted  above  my  head;  the  swiftness 
of  the  run  suspended  the  mobility  of  the 
foliage,  which  gave  out  but  a  faint  rustling ; 
but  at  the  least  pause  the  wind  and  its  agi- 
tation would  return  to  the  bough,  which  re- 
sumed the  course  of  its  murmurings.  So 
my  life,  at  the  sudden  interruption  of  the  im- 
petuous careers  to  which  I  abandoned  myself 
through  these  valleys,  pulsated  through  my 
whole  breast.  I  heard  it  run  boiling  and  roll- 
ing with  the  fire  which  it  had  gathered  in  the 
space  so  ardently  cleared.  My  impassioned 
flanks  fought  against  the  floods  with  which 
they  were  inwardly  pressed,  and  felt  in  their 
storms  the  voluptuousness  that  is  known 
only  to  the  shores  of  the  sea,  that  of  enclos- 
ing without  loss  a  life  risen  to  its  greatest 
height  and  supreme  wrath.  Meanwhile,  with 
head  inclined  to  the  wind  that  brought  me 
coolness,  I  considered  the  mountain  peaks 
which  had  in  a  few  moments  melted  in  the 
distance,  the  trees  of  the  banks  and  the 
waters  of  the  rivers,  the  latter  carried  by  a 
sluggish  current,  the  former  bound  to  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  and  mobile  only  through 


MAURICE    DE   GUERIN.  229 

their  branches,  subject  to  the  breaths  of  the 
air  that  make  them  moan.  "  I  alone,"  said 
I  to  myself,  "  enjoy  free  movement,  and  I 
carry  my  life,  at  will,  from  one  end  to  the 
other  of  these  valleys.  I  am  happier  than 
the  torrents  that  fall  from  the  mountains  to 
return  no  more.  The  rolling  of  my  foot- 
steps is  grander  than  the  complaints  of  the 
woods  and  the  sounds  of  the  water;  it  is 
the  thunder  of  the  wandering  Centaur  who 
guides  his  own  steps."  So,  while  my  agi- 
tated flanks  were  filled  with  the  intoxication 
of  racing,  higher  did  I  feel  the  pride  there- 
of, and  turning  back  my  head,  I  would  pause 
a  while  to  gaze  upon  my  steaming  back. 

Youth  is  like  the  verdant  forests  tor- 
mented by  the  winds  :  it  tosses  on  all  sides 
the  rich  gifts  of  life  and  always  some  deep 
murmur  sways  its  foliage.  Living  with  the 
freedom  of  rivers,  breathing  without  cease 
the  presence  of  Cybele,  whether  in  the  bed 
of  the  valleys  or  on  the  height  of  the  mount- 
ains, I  bounded  whither  I  would,  like  a  blind 
and  chainless  life.  But  when  Night,  filled 
with  the  calm  of  the  gods,  overtook  me  on 
the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  she  guided  me 


230  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

to  the  mouth  of  the  caverns,  and  there  ap- 
peased me  as  she  appeases  the  billows  of 
the  sea,  letting  survive  within  me  faint  un- 
dulations, which  kept  away  sleep  without 
disturbing  my  repose.  Stretched  across  the 
threshold  of  my  retreat,  my  flanks  hidden 
within  the  cave,  and  my  head  under  the  open 
sky,  I  watched  the  spectacle  of  the  dark. 
Then  the  life  which  had  penetrated  me  from 
the  outside  during  the  day  fell  away  from 
me  drop  by  drop,  returning  to  the  peaceful 
bosom  of  Cybele,  as  after  a  storm  the  drops 
of  rain  clinging  to  the  foliage  fall  and  rejoin 
the  waters.  It  is  said  that  the  sea -gods 
during  the  darkness  leave  their  palaces  un- 
der the  deep,  and  sitting  on  the  promon- 
tories, let  their  eyes  wander  over  the  floods. 
Even  so  I  kept  watch,  having  at  my  feet  an 
expanse  of  life  like  the  hushed  sea. 

Brought  back  to  a  distinct  and  full  exist- 
ence, it  seemed  as  though  I  had  just  issued 
from  birth,  and  as  though  deep  waters  which 
had  conceived  me  in  their  womb  had  just 
left  me  on  the  mountain-top,  like  a  dolphin 
forgotten  among  the  sands  by  the  waves  of 
Amphi  trite. 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN.  231 

My  looks  had  free  range,  and  reached  to 
the  most  distant  points.  Like  shores  ever 
wet,  the  line  of  mountains  to  the  west  re- 
tained the  imprint  of  gleams  imperfectly 
wiped  out  by  the  shadows.  Yonder  still  sur- 
vived in  pale  clearness  summits  naked  and 
pure.  There  I  beheld  at  one  time  the  god 
Pan  descend,  ever  solitary;  at  another,  the 
choir  of  the  secret  divinities ;  or  I  saw 
pass  some  mountain  nymph  entranced  by  the 
night.  Sometimes  the  eagles  of  Mount  Olym- 
pus traversed  the  upper  sky,  and  melted  away 
among  the  far-off  constellations  or  in  the 
shades  of  the  inspired  forests.  The  spirit 
of  the  gods,  happening  to  awaken,  suddenly 
troubled  the  calm  of  the  ancient  oaks. 

Thou  pursuest  wisdom, O  Melampus, which 
is  the  science  of  the  will  of  the  gods  ;  and 
thou  roamest  among  the  peoples  like  a 
mortal  misled  by  the  destinies.  There  is  in 
this  vicinity  a  stone  which,  as  soon  as  it  is 
touched,  gives  out  a  sound  like  that  of  the 
breaking  strings  of  an  instrument;  and  men 
say  that  Apollo,  who  was  tending  his  flock  in 
these  deserts,  having  laid  his  lyre  upon  it, 
left  there  the  sound  of  that  melody.  O 


232  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Melampus !  the  roaming  gods  have  laid  their 
lyres  upon  the  stones ;  but  none,  none  has 
forgotten  his  melody  upon  them.  In  the  days 
when  I  kept  my  night-watches  before  the  cav- 
erns, I  have  sometimes  believed  that  I  was 
about  to  surprise  the  thought  of  the  sleeping 
Cybele,  and  that  the  mother  of  the  gods,  be- 
trayed by  her  dreams,  would  let  fall  some 
of  her  secrets;  but  I  have  never  made  out 
more  than  sounds  which  faded  away  in  the 
winds  of  the  night,  or  words  inarticulate  as 
the  bubbling  of  the  rivers. 

"  O  Macareus !"  one  day  said  the  great 
Chiron  to  me,  whose  old  age  I  followed,  "we 
are  both  of  us  Centaurs  of  the  mountain  ; 
but  how  different  are  our  lives  !  Thou  seest 
it ;  all  the  care  of  my  days  is  the  search  for 
plants ;  while  thou,  thou  art  like  those  mor- 
tals who  have  picked  up  on  the  waters  or  in 
the  woods,  and  carried  to  their  lips,  some 
fragments  of  the  reed-pipe  broken  by  the 
god  Pan.  Thenceforth  these  mortals,  hav- 
ing breathed  from  their  relics  of  the  god  a 
savage  spirit,  or  perhaps  caught  some  secret 
madness,  enter  into  the  wilderness,  plunge 
into  the  forests,  follow  the  waters,  wander 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN. 


233 


among  the  mountains,  restless,  and  impelled 
by  an  unknown  purpose.  The  mares  be- 
loved by  the  winds  in  the  farthest  Scythia 
are  not  wilder  than  thou,  nor  sadder  at  night- 
fall, when  the  North  Wind  has  departed. 
Seekest  thou  the  gods,  O  Macareus,  and 
from  what  origin  men,  animals,  and  the  ele- 
ments of  the  univer- 
sal fire  have  sprung? 
But  the  aged  Ocean, 
father  of  all  things, 
keeps  locked  within 
his  own  breast  these 
secrets;  and  the 
nymphs  who  sur- 
round him  sing,  /•/ 
as  they  weave 
their  eternal  cho- 
rus before  him, 
to  cover  any  sound  which  might  escape  from 
his  lips  half-opened  by  slumber.  The  mor- 
tals, who  have  touched  the  heart  of  the  gods 
by  their  virtue,  have  received  from  their 
hands  lyres  to  charm  the  nations,  or  new 
seeds  to  make  them  rich ;  but  from  their  in- 
exorable lips,  nothing ! 


234  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

"  In  my  youth  Apollo  attracted  me  tow- 
ards plants,  and  taught  me  to  extract  from 
their  veins  the  beneficent  juices.  Since 
then  I  have  faithfully  guarded  this  great 
home  of  the  mountains,  unquiet,  but  always 
turning  away  in  quest  of  simples,  and  com- 
municating the  virtues  which  I  discover. 
Beholdest  thou  from  here  the  bald  summit 
of  Mount  Oeta  ?  Alcides  has  stripped  it  to 
build  his  pyre,  O  Macareus !  the  demi- 
gods, children  of  the  gods,  spread  the  skin 
of  lions  upon  the  pyres,  and  are  consumed 
on  the  summit  of  mountains  !  The  poisons 
of  earth  corrupt  the  blood  received  from  the 
Immortals.  And  we,  Centaurs  begotten  by 
an  audacious  mortal  in  the  womb  of  a  cloud 
that  bore  the  semblance  of  a  goddess,  what 
succor  could  we  expect  from  Jupiter  who  has 
smitten  with  his  thunder-bolts  the  father  of 
our  race  ?  The  vulture  of  the  gods  everlast- 
ingly preys  on  the  entrails  of  the  worker 
who  fashioned  the  first  man,  O  Macareus ! 
Men  and  Centaurs  recognize  as  begetters  of 
their  life  the  infractors  of  the  privilege  of 
the  Immortals ;  and  perhaps  all  that  moves 
outside  of  them  is  but  stolen  from  them,  a 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN.  235 

small  part  of  their  nature  carried  afar,  like 
the  flying  seed,  by  the  all-powerful  breath  of 
destiny.  It  is  said  that  Egeus,  father  of 
Theseus,  has  concealed  under  the  weight 
of  a  rock,  by  the  sea-side,  memorials  and 
marks  whereby  his  son  might  one  day  learn 
of  his  birth.  The  jealous  gods  have  buried 
somewhere  the  proofs  of  the  descent  of 
things ;  but  by  the  shores  of  what  ocean 
have  they  rolled  the  stone  that  covers  them, 
O  Macareus  ?" 

Such  was  the  wisdom  towards  which  the 
great  Chiron  led  me.  Reduced  to  the  ex- 
tremity of  age,  the  Centaur  yet  nourished 
in  his  spirit  the  most  lofty  discourse.  His 
yet  vigorous  bust  had  settled  but  little  upon 
his  flanks,  from  which  it  rose  with  a  slight 
inclination,  like  an  oak  saddened  by  the 
winds,  and  the  force  of  his  steps  hardly  suf- 
fered from  the  loss  of  years.  One  would 
have  thought  that  he  still  retained  the  re- 
mains of  the  immortality  received  of  yore 
from  Apollo,  but  which  he  had  returned  to 
that  god. 

For  me,  O  Melampus!  I  decline  into  old 
age,  calm  as  the  setting  of  the  constellations. 


236  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

I  still  retain  hardihood  enough  to  climb  to 
the  top  of  the  rocks,  and  there  I  linger  late, 
either  to  gaze  on  the  wild  and  restless 
clouds,  or  to  see  come  up  from  the  horizon 
the  rainy  Hyades,  the  Pleiades,  or  the  great 
Orion ;  but  I  am  conscious  that  I  am  wast- 
ing and  passing  quickly  away  like  snow 
floating  on  the  waters,  and  that  shortly  I 
shall  go  and  mingle  with  the  rivers  that 
flow  in  the  vast  bosom  of  the  earth. 


PAUL    MASY. 


A  FANTASY. 

/> 

•  •  §  •  PON  the  lake  of  languid  waters, 
•  f  I  J  impurpled  by  the  last  rays 
^^xVr  of  the  sun,  glides  the  junk 
garlanded  with  flowers.  At  the  prow,  in 
pink  and  mauve  simars  embroidered  with 
heraldic  chrysanthemums,  young  girls  sing 
vague  and  amorous  songs,  whose  echo  dies 
among  the  bloom  of  the  peach-trees.  The 
young  girls  pass  with  smiles  and  shudders, 
as  though,  in  the  breeze,  invisible  hands  ca- 
ressed them.  They  smile  and  laugh,  while 
their  indolent  fingers 
cull  the  lunar  water-rose 
and  the  snowy  lotus. 

Yonder,  against  the 
orange  horizon,  stand 
the  already  darkened 
forests,  towards  which  fly  the  flaffing  cranes. 


240  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

On  the  left  a  terrace  of  pale  green  marble, 
where  peacocks  shriek  to  the  moon.  On 
the  right,  in  an  orchard,  a  strange  being 
with  squinting  eyes  unrolls  a  long  papyrus 
where,  in  heteroclitic  characters,  is  written 
the  fate  of  the  fainting  day  and  of  the  sing- 
ing girls. 


HECTOR    CHAINAYE.  243 


THE   GUESTS. 


FINE  and  luminous  rain  falls 
softly  on  the  hot  and  white  dust 
of  the  roads.  The  dust,  which 
dares  not  absorb  it,  is  irisated 
with  sparkles.  The  wind,  too 
quiet,  too  feeble  to  disturb  the 
grasses  of  the  plain,  sings  among  the  rus- 
tling leaves,  that  move  of  themselves,  not 
daring  to  resist  the  weakness  of  the  wind. 
The  trees  quiver  with  harmonies.  The  last 
rays,  sad  and  weary,  filter  through  the  thick 
hangings  of  the  windows,  that  dare  not  pre- 
vent them,  so  sad  and  weary  are  they.  And 
the  drawing-room,  full  of  silken  dreams, 
where  I  sit  alone,  lights  itself  up  with  sleep- 
ing gleams,  like  an  altar  under  its  high  oriels. 
The  tufted  carpet  finds  the  floor  very 
smooth,  and  gives  it  silent  kisses  with  its 


244  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

fringes.  The  heavy  chairs,  the  heavier  arm- 
chairs of  severe  shapes,  do  not  dare  to  press 
too  hard,  for  fear  of  hurting  the  carpet  and 
the  floor.  The  light,  which  during  the  day- 
time has  penetrated  into  the  great  vases  of 
the  etageres  and  slipped  into  the  flowers  of 
the  bouquets,  does  not  dare  to  come  forth, 
now  that  the  day  is  extinguished ;  the  shad- 
ows vaguely  frighten  it,  and  moreover,  the 
vases  are  such  fair  resting-places,  the  chal- 
ices such  soft  nests.  And  through  the  pris- 
matic crystal,  and  through  the  fiery  corals, 
the  light  looks  at  the  night  spreading  over 
the  tufted  carpet  and  the  polished  floor. 
The  clock  has  stopped,  not  daring  to  make 
a  sound,  and  wishing  to  forget  the  flight  of 
time. 

And  I  dare  not  move.  Yet  I  should  leave, 
my  place  is  not  here.  Have  I  been  bidden  ? 
And  as  the  day  retires,  a  shadowy  personage 
enters  mysteriously  and  takes  a  seat  after 
having  made  his  bow;  then  the  invited 
guests  sit  in  a  circle  and  talk  to  one  another 
in  low  tones.  The  carpet  understands,  the 
clock  listens.  Ah !  why  am  I  human  ?  I 
cannot  even  suspect  their  conversation,  I  am 


HECTOR   CHAINAYE.  245 

too  brutal  to  understand  their  infinitely  ten- 
der souls.  If  I  were  to  speak  they  would 
flee,  if  even  I  were  to  say  to  them  in  my 
most  caressing  tones :  "  Stay,  I  pray  you, 
stay,"  they  would  depart,  so  gross  would  my 
voice  sound  to  them.  And  I  feel  it;  my 
presence  disturbs  them — and  yet  I  do  not 
move,  I  dare  not. 


CATULLE   MENDES.  249 


MELICERTE. 

ECAUSE  of  the  prettiest  of  little 
mouths  and  of  two  eyes  like 
blue  star-flowers,  I  bear  a 
strangely  sorrowful  heart. 

It  is  not  that  she  is  cruel  that 
I  suffer  so  bitterly  because  of  the  prettiest 
of  little  mouths. 

She  refuses  me  neither  her  perfumes  nor 
her  smiles  !  but  because  she  gives  them  also 
to  others  I  bear  a  strangely  sorrowful  heart. 
I  one  day  saw  Melicerte,  my  little  shep- 
herdess, in  a  dress  of  pink  lawn  ;  the  butter- 
flies followed  her,  as  also  the  bees,  because 
of  the  prettiest  of  little  mouths. 

"  Little  blooming  mouth,  what  is  thy 
name  ?"  I  said.  "  Constant  vow  !  faithful 
kiss  !"  It  was  lying,  alas  !  I  bear  a  strange- 
Iv  sorrowful  heart. 


250 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


Melicerte  welcomes  all  the 
tender  and  magnificent  suitors 
who  offer  her  their  vows  and 
jewels  from  the  good  jeweller 
because  of  the  prettiest  of  lit- 
tle mouths. 

Unfaithful  kiss  and  frivo- 
lous vow,  such  are,  shepherd- 
ess Melicerte,  the  true  names 
for  thy  lips !  Wherefore  I  bear 
a  strangely  sorrowful  heart. 

I  curse  the  eglantines  of  the 
lanes  and  the  strawberries  of 
the  green  woods,  and  all  that 
resembles  it,  because  of  the  prettiest  of  little 
mouths ! 

In  vain  does  the  sun  make  happy  the 
heavens  and  the  plains,  bewitch  the  couples 
that  go  hand  in  hand  through  the  paths 
that  are  never  narrow  enough  !  I  bear  a 
strangely  sorrowful  heart. 

This  morning  one  of  my  uncles  died  leav- 
ing me  four  houses  free  of  mortgage ;  I 
hardly  smiled !  Because  of  the  prettiest  of 
little  mouths,  I  bear  a  strangely  sorrowful 
heart. 


CATULLE    iMENDES. 


THE  SWANS. 

T  *r 

!  I  NDER  the  pale  October  sun  I  was 
\V       )  1     wandering  by  the  Lake  of  En- 
-*"V     ghien.    The  swans  floated  slow- 
ly, in   white   and   mysterious   bands,  upon 
the  great  surface  of  the  lake,  amid  the  au- 
tumnal landscape,  grave,  pompous,  and  sol- 
itary. 

The  trees,  from  which  the  dry  leaves  had 
not  yet  fallen,  looked  like  trees  of  gold, 
such  as  are  seen  in  the  pantomimes  of  the 
Chatelet  theatre ;  the  wind  moaned  melo- 
diously in  the  branches;  under  the  pale 
October  sun  I  was  wandering  by  the  Lake 
of  Enghien. 

I  wandered  till  evening,  and  when  the 
pale  gloom  had  fallen  I  saw  the  little  stars 
appear,  the  little  stars  that  are  compassion- 


252  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

ate  to  nocturnal  melancholy  ;  and  the  swans 
floated  slowly,  in  white  and  mysterious 
bands. 

But  soon  they  swam  away,  and  in  the 
vague  darkness  they  seemed  a  sheet  of  snow 
rapidly  melting.  One  only,  motionless  and 
ecstatic,  remained  on  the  great  surface  of 
the  lake  amid  the  autumnal  sunset. 

And  in  spite  of  myself  I  thought  of  my 
soul,  which  so  many  dreams  and  so  many 
loves  haunted  of  yore.  Where  are  the  roses 
of  the  faded  April  ?  In  my  soul,  which 
night  oppresses,  a  single  love  has  remain- 
ed, grave,  pompous,  and  solitary, 

Under  the  pale  October  sun. 


CATULLE   MENDES. 


253 


QUEEN   COELIA. 


'OELIA  is  queen  of  a  chi- 
merical kingdom,  perhaps 
on  the  borders  of  the  Forest  of  Arden, 
perhaps  on  the  shores  of  the  Isle  of  Ava- 
lon.  In  one  of  the  hundred 
boudoirs  of  her  palace,  where 
climbing  roses  flower  the  silk  of 
the  hangings — while  the  birds 
of  the  garden  fly  through  the 
open  windows  to  quarrel  with 
those  held  captive  behind  the 
light  wires  of  golden  cages — 
she  speaks  to  her  ladies-in-wait- 
ing, who  are  playing  draughts, 
or  pouring  pearl  and  beryl 
necklaces  in  open  coffers.  "  It 
is  true,"  says  Queen  Coelia, 
"  that  the  young  student  allowed 


254  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

himself  to  die  of  hunger,  last  year,  in  the 
capital  of  my  kingdom  ;  but  you  have  not 
been  told  the  whole  story.  For  a  long 
time  he  had  been  sad,  because  of  a  dream, 
and  often  he  was  seen  in  melancholy  atti- 
tudes under  the  window  of  the  oratory 
where,  of  evenings,  I  play  on  the  clavichord. 
Then  his  fellow-students  saw  him  no  more. 
Nobody  knew  in  what  solitude,  in  what 
silence,  he  had  concealed  his  languor.  One 
day  some  people  who  entered  his  lodging 
found  him  extended  upon  his  disordered 
bed,  very  pale,  and  yet  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips.  He  was  dead,  but  none  the  less  fair. 
A  leech  having  been  summoned,  ascertained 
that  the  poor  youth  had  died  for  want  of 
food." 

"  That  is  all  the  more  strange,"  said  one 
of  the  ladies-in-waiting,  "  that  they  found  on 
the  bed,  on  the  table,  on  the  carpet,  a  num- 
ber of  gold  coins  bearing  the  effigy  of  Your 
Majesty,  and  of  which  one  alone  would 
have  sufficed  to  pay  for  the  most  costly 
feast." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Coelia.  "  But,"  she 
added,  as  a  tear  fell  from  her  eyelids  and 


CATULLE    MENDES.  255 

rolled  down  her  cheek  till  it  moistened  her 
smile,  "  the  poor  student  had  died  in  prefer- 
ence to  parting  from  a  single  one  of  the 
beautiful  gold  coins." 


256  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 


THE   TRIAL   OF   THE   ROSES. 

r  the  garden  of  the  hospital,  where  flut- 
ters in  the  sun  the  winged  snow  of 
the  butterflies,  the  young  lunatic  wan- 
ders alone.     He  is  pale,  with  an  air 
of  softness.     And  what  sadness  in  his  vague 
eyes  !    He  stops  before  a  sweetbrier,  culls  a 
brier-rose ;  stops  between  two  rose-bushes, 
culls  from  one  a  tea-rose,  from  the  other  a 
moss-rose. 

On  a  wooden  bench  at  the  turn  of  the 
path  he  places  the  three  flowers  that  he  has 
culled. 

He  says  to  the  brier-rose : 
"  Brier-rose,  answer  !  You  are  accused 
of  having  abandoned  without  pity,  when  you 
were  a  young  girl,  a  poor  and  sorrowful 
child  who  adored  you,  in  favor  of  an  old 
man  who  was  rich.  What  have  you  to  say 
in  your  defence  ?" 


CATULLE    MEXDES.  257 

He  awaits  the  answer. 

He  continues : 

"The  cause  is  heard.     I  condemn  you." 

He  says  to  the  tea-rose  : 

"Tea-rose,  answer!  You  are  accused  of 
having,  when  you  were  a  worldly  young 
woman,  driven  to  despair,  and  tortured  by 
the  infamous  play  of  your  deceitful  smiles 
and  of  your  retracted  consents,  a  miserable 
young  man  whose  heart,  alas !  beat  only  for 
you  ardently.  What  have  you  to  say  in 
your  defence  ?" 

He  awaits  the  answer. 

He  continues : 

"The  cause  is  heard.     I  condemn  you." 

He  says  to  the  moss-rose  : 

"Moss-rose, answer !  Thou  art  accused 
of  having,  when  thou  wert  a  fair  girl  selling 
thy  smiles  and  thy  kisses,  crazed  by  thy 
caresses,  ruined  and  dishonored  an  unfort- 
unate man  who  sought  in  thy  love  the  ob- 
livion of  his  ancient  despair?  What  hast 
thou  to  say  in  thy  defence  ?" 

He  awaits  the  answer. 

He  continues  : 

"The  cause  is  heard.  1  condemn  thee." 
17 


258  I'ASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

Having  pronounced  these  sentences,  he 
pulls  from  his  pocket  a  pretty,  complicated 
instrument  made  of  aromatic  woods  and  of 
shining  steel ;  it  is  a  little  guillotine,  which 
he  has  fashioned  while  dreaming  during  his 
hours  of  leisure. 

One  after  the  other,  upon  the  tiny  bas- 
cule, he  places  the  eglantine,  the  tea-rose, 
the  moss-rose.  One  after  the  other,  beneath 
the  blade  that  slides  and  cuts,  the  flowers, 
separated  from  their  stems,  fall  in  the  gravel 
of  the  path. 

He  picks  them  up  and  gazes  at  them 
long. 

He  walks  towards  the  shadowy 
part  of  the  garden,  where  nobody 
passes,  digs  with  his  fingers  a  lit- 
tle grave  in  the  earth,  lays  in  it ' 
together  the  three  executed  flow- 
ers, covers  them  with  gravel  and 
with  acacia-leaves. 
Then  he  kneels  down  and  weeps  till  even- 
ing over  the  grave  of  the  guilty  roses. 


CHARLES-EUDES    BONIN.  261 


GLORIES. 

> 

M    ^.^   HE  immense  circus  is  deserted. 
^^  *   j         Alone,  in  the  imperial  box,  un- 
^^•^     der  the  hangings  of  purple,  a  gold- 
en Figure  looks  on  : 

In  the  sanded  arena,  unpolluted  yet,  fair 
women  in  resplendent  armor  struggle,  with 
a  joyous  clashing  steel. 

Their  light  curls  gush  from  under  the 
helmets  smitten  by  the  indefatigable  swords, 
and  their  white  and  naked  arms  are  clasped 
in  mortal  fury. 

From  their  broken  corselets  burst  the 
wounded  breasts,  and  blood  now  flows 
among  their  locks. 

And  when  one  of  the  Amazons  falls  van- 
quished upon  the  sand,  red  at  last,  she  lifts 
her  dying  eyes  towards  the  imperial  box, 
whence  mercy  is  to  descend. 


262 


PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 


And  the  Emperor,  the  young  Caesar,  with 
smiling  lips  slowly  reverses  his  thumb,  en- 
circled with  a  ring  of  gold,  and  makes  the 
gesture  that  condemns. 

n.  It   is    a  night  of  panic  and    of    sorrow, 

when  under  the  starless  sky  the  City  stifles 

between  its  walls  of  bronze. 

And  along  the  streets  and  the  porticos, 

before  the  temples,  at  the  feet  of  the  gods, 

the  agonizing  crowd  listens  in  silence  to  the 

distant  voice  of  the  great  sea. 

And  lo  !  among  the  winds  of  the  high-sea 
and  the  silence  of  the 
crowd,  a  superhuman 
voice  arises  and  cries 
out  a  name, — while  in 
the  dark  heavens  invis- 
ible trumpets  proclaim 
a  victory. 

And  on  the  thresh- 
old of  a  temple  a  Man 
is  standing, who,  before 
the  sea  and  before  the 

crowd,  under  the  heavens  and  in  the  night, 

lifts  a  great  sign  of  Light. 


HENRI    DE    REGNIER.  265 


the  foot  of  the  stairway,  un- 
der the  sifted  light  of  a 
window  whose  panes,  in  the 
shape  of  lozenges,  are  enchased  in  a  net- 
work of  lead,  a  fantastic  beast,  Dragon  or 
Chimera,  twists  the  coils  of  its  tail  and  un- 
clasps its  sharp  claws.  With  open  jaws  it 
seems  to  yawn  with  weariness  or  roar  with 
rage.  From  its  sinuous  back,  imbricated 
with  scales,  springs  a  sheaf  of  rare  flowers 
that  fall  back  to  mirror  themselves  in  the 
polished  and  swollen  flanks  of  the  monster. 
Reflections  caress  the  carved  wood,  lustrous- 
ly black  and  rigid  as  metal. 

The  stairway  mounts,  and  plunges  into 
warm  shadow  the  torsion  of  its  wrought 
balusters,  which  at  every  turn  shine  with  a 
glossy  sheen.  Along  the  wall  tapestries,  in 


266  PASTELS   IN    PROSE. 

the  softness  of  their  deadened  tints,  unroll 
dreamy  landscapes.  They  are  bright  and 
joyous  hangings,  but  time  has  changed 
their  colors.  The  pinks  have  whitened ;  the 
whites  have  become  more  eburnean  and 
more  creamy;  the  greens  have  been  trans- 
muted into  blues,  blues  melting  into  shades 
more  tender.  And  they  offer  sites  of  peace 
and  repose  a  nature  calm  and  artificial,  a 
little  chimerical,  where  one  would  fain  lead 
one's  vagrant  thoughts  through  those  scenes 
of  joy  and  of  happy  siestas ;  parks  whose 
alleys  encircle  lawns  where  the  grass  is  rep- 
resented by  designs  in  arabesque  ;  sheets  of 
water  bordered  by  vases  and  mythological 
statues,  losing  themselves  under  the  blue 
shadow  of  the  trees ;  basins  into  which  drip 
over-full  fountains.  Cupids  are  at  work  gar- 
dening, wheeling  flowers,  digging  parterres, 
letting  harvests  of  roses  overflow  and  fall 
from  their  childish  arms.  At  the  end  of 
bluish  avenues  tranquil  palaces  rise  in  the 
fair  horizontality  of  their  lines  ;  among  the 
trees  flutter  multicolor  paroquets.  And  I 
ascend,  with  my  eyes  full  of  the  attenuated 
charm  of  these  old  things,  discolored  and 


HENRI    DE    REGNIER.  267 

soft  as  love — a  love  already  ancient — that 
makes  my  heart  beat  as  I  push  open  the 
high  door  where  run,  underlining  the  wood- 
work, threads  of  gold.  And  in  the  room 
lightened  by  the  shimmer  of  blue  silks  em- 
broidered with  light  sprays,  where  fine  cur- 
tains fall  from  the  windows,  indolently  she 
is  lying,  stretched  out  on  the  divan,  and  lifts 
towards  me  the  ineffable  and  languishing 
look  of  her  eyes. 

In   the   hollow  of  the   stairway  a  round 
lantern  hung  from  a  silver  chain.    The  light 


glintered  along  the  balusters,  and 
stole  from  step  to  step,  fainter  and 
fainter,  leaving  at  the  bottom  the 
vagueness  and  mystery  of  a  hole  of 
shadows.  And  I  descended  slowiv, 


268  PASTELS    IN    PROSE. 

with  broken  heart,  carrying  forever  within 
me  the  memory  of  her  cold  looks  and  of 
her  irremissible  refusal. 

The  tapestries,  whose  colors  were  extin- 
guished by  the  night,  unrolled  saddened  land- 
scapes ;  among  the  woods  lost  in  darkness 
the  multicolor  paroquets  were  alone  visible  ; 
the  basins  had  disappeared ;  the  hedges 
and  grass  made  black  spots  in  the  design; 
the  cupids,  with  feet  on  their  spades,  seem- 
ed to  be  digging  a  grave,  and  from  their 
arms  overflowed  pale  roses,  so  pale  that  they 
seemed  like  dead  flowers  ;  and  the  fantastic 
beast,  Chimera  or  Dragon,  was  grinning 
wickedly,  threatening  and  bellicose.  In 
passing  I  took  a  flower,  and  the  monster, 
twisting  his  tail,  swelled  his  flanks  as  though 
to  bark  at  my  heels. 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  street,  where  were 
being  lighted  the  swinging  lanterns,  a  gust 
of  wind  passed,  and  the  flower  fell  to  pieces 
in  my  hand. 


IN   UNIFORM    STYLE. 

T^^9J^^J^MJ^S^^^^n  Jales- 

By  Guy  de  Maupassant.  The  Translation 
by  Jonathan  Sturges.  An  Introduction  by 
Henry  James.  16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

MARIA  :  A  South  American  Romance.  By 
Jorge  Isaacs.  The  Translation  by  Rollo 
Ogden.  An  Introduction  by  Thomas  A. 
Janvier.  16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  oj  price. 


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